BUTTER, BY LIANA WOODWARD
To sit in my mother’s lap after dessert unafraid
to match our figures together like napkin corners. Unafraid
to look at our holiday bodies. These opal rolls, silverskin bellies,
shinbone knives dipped into comfortable fat. Thighs
that spread in the pan. How we dress the table
in grease stained clothes & grandma’s berry-colored
depression glasses. How the colors fade with repeated lips.
I've grown into mother's particular etiquette.
Object placement as preparation for pleasure. Spoons
that curve and suck up to mouths. To hand wash & polish
plated silver. Preserve exterior richness. We’re best
when our eyes are big, eat lushness, regret none of it.
When, having considered proper, we let ourselves lavish
on candlelit dishes. Close & happy as full mouths. Full as moons.
Liana Woodward is a poet from Santa Fe, New Mexico. She received her MFA in poetry from the University of Montana and serves as a poetry editor for CutBank Literary Magazine.