The butter always ran out first. That meant
something, once — meant elbows on the table,
meant the kids were arguing who went
without, meant noise, meant every mouth was able
to want out loud. She loved the wanting.
Loved refereeing, loved the scramble,
loved how hunger made them less than daunting,
made her husband boyish at the gamble
of the last heel, loved her son's theatrical
grief at losing — not fair, not fair —
the whole performance somehow sabbatical,
holy in its chaos. All that air
filled with wanting and the smell of bread.
She'd slice another loaf. Of course she would.
There was always another. No one said
thank you formally — they understood
thank you as more please, which is the purest
form. Gratitude that doesn't pause
to name itself. Love at its least curated.
She cut and cut. They ate without a cause
beyond the eating, and the eating was
enough, was everything, was what a house
becomes when no one's watching what it does —
just living, spilling, burning, loud.
The butter still ran out. Same amount.
Same loaf. Same table. But the sound
was gone — and that was all. The bread
broke them the way bread breaks: suddenly, and by hand.