Like butter

As it turns out, I have a copy of "Body of Life," from inaugural poet Elizabeth Alexander. The collection was published by Tia Chucha Press in Chicago.

As it turns out, I also have a copy of "Kings of the Hill: How Nine Powerful Men Changed the Course of American History," written by Richard B. Cheney and Lynne V. Cheney. Who knew?

I pull the first book out of the brown cardboard box to read more thoroughly in the future. I put the second book back into storage.

Butter

My mother loves butter more than I do,
more than anyone. She pulls chunks off
the stick and eats it plain, explaining
cream spun around into butter! Growing up
we ate turkey cutlets sautéed in lemon
and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles,
butter melting in small pools in the hearts
of Yorkshire puddings, butter better
than gravy staining white rice yellow,
butter glazing corn in slipping squares,
butter the lava in white volcanoes
of hominy grits, butter softening
in a white bowl to be creamed with white
sugar, butter disappearing into
whipped sweet potatoes, with pineapple,
butter melted and curdy to pour
over pancakes, butter licked off the plate
with warm Alaga syrup. When I picture
the good old days I am grinning greasy
with my brother, having watched the tiger
chase his tail and turn to butter. We are
Mumbo and Jumbo's children despite
historical revision, despite
our parent's efforts, glowing from the inside
out, one hundred megawatts of butter.

Elizabeth Alexander, in the poetry collection "Body of Life."

Her father eats

"Dad ate all his meals with vigor and passion, as if each were his last. He hated eating in a hurry as much as his father despised overcooked meat. Instead, Dad lingered over every sip of wine or bite of food throughout the duration of a meal. He paused between bites, resting his chopsticks across his rice bowl as he decided which delicacy he would taste next. Dad admired the whole meal placed in front of him and then studied each dish, appreciating its appearance and aroma. He may have eaten a dish a hundred times, but he approached each meal anew, as if he had never before tasted what lay in front of him."

Linda Furiya, in "Bento Box in the Heartland: My Japanese Girlhood in Whitebread America."