It’s not the kind of thing
you see every day, an old woman
straddling a butter churn, working
the thick wooden dasher up and down
between weathered thighs, plunging
over and over, humming in rhythm,
gazing with half-closed eyes until the chore
is complete and she can move on.
It’s not the kind of thing you expect
to make you flinch, lose your breath,
wag your head squint-eyed, remind you
of the detached acquiescence of an ex
you could never (no, never) love right.
Atticus Review - August 28, 2013