bread & butter
by Olivia Braley
“I have often maintained that the best poet is he who prepares our daily bread:
the nearest baker who does not imagine himself to be a god.” — Pablo Neruda
my grandma taught me you can fix anything with buttered bread:
softened honey butter on farmer’s market sourdough, salted butter
on toasted rye— in a pinch, even a smear of i can’t believe it’s not
on wonderbread will do the trick.
as a kid when i had a stomach ache,
she would bring me two slices on a paper plate
& i’d lie on the sofa wrapped in a handmade crocheted blanket,
chomping away as the peter pan tape rewound in the vhs.
in reverse, the kids flee neverland for london,
even peter’s shadow leaves him in the end.
it’s said that when an obstacle (say a parking meter)
forces two people to separate,
they should say bread and butter
so nothing comes between them.
it’s because they’re inseparable, i explain,
you can’t unbutter bread. you think i’m childish.
one morning, i wake up hungover in our bed,
remember that we fought but not why,
& beside me on your pillow sleeps a slice of whole wheat
spread thick with the stuff.
maybe anything your grandma gives you is comfort food.
maybe all grandmas are poets.
maybe like bread, even love gets stale.
maybe the bread & butter of love isn’t forgiveness,
but forgetting. maybe bread is just bread—
maybe not everything is some metaphor for you & i.
our lease is up at the end of may
& though we haven’t said it yet, we won’t sign another.
there’s something about early summertime
that makes people crave change, a friend says.
& maybe she’s right— the air on those elongating days
carries a warm bakery smell that seduces you just by breathing,
the familiar almost-summer feels just like buttered bread:
all smooth and light yellow and nourishing.
Olivia Braley is a writer and author of the chapbook SOFTENING. She is a co-founder and Editor in Chief of Stone of Madness Press, and a Reader at Longleaf Review. Keep up with her work on Twitter @OliviaBraley or at her website, oliviabraleywrites.com