Lock Butter


I be a tender root
a mere indecisive tangle
that has been smashed
and twisted
and rolled smooth
between her caramel palms

woven and shaped into stories
passed down from granny
to momma to grand-baby
that grew and curled
latched and knotted
into strong and wise
black and woman and poem

I carry the scent
of an old lemon picker’s hands
of a little girl’s bare legs
running through summer weeds

the golden strand
that coils leans toward her lips
when she speaks     writes
hugged in scents of chalkboard
cedar pencils     blank pages

I be immersed
in the butter of her name
thicklike mud still wet
on God’s fingertips

the drop
that became an ocean
tumbling down her waist
the texture of orange peels
and wild Kentucky twangs

Image Credits: BuzzFarmers