I used to laugh at my grandmother
and her womenfolk for sitting
on the front porch talking
about everything and nothing,
their words gooey and hot, glazed the summer air like the thick,
syrupy nectar of honey bees.
But now I’m one of those women
surrounded by ladies of my own
and my daughter’s constant cooing
from her bassinette. Here in the middle
of this women’s talk I sneak
a peep at her, my grandmother’s
words kneaded on my lips,
creamy and curdled like
the butter she used to churn.