Geraldine Mills
Butter Stamp
for my grandmother Brigid Heveron
First she let the milk cool until she heard
the cream rise to the surface, ripen.
Next she skimmed it off,
placed it in the churn.
Then tuned to the turn of its sound,
my grandmother drew the dash
up and down, up and down the cream,
listening for the flecks of gild to form.
And then the butter came.
Washed and washed again until all milk traces
were pressed out, and salted, paddle-slapped it into shape,
marked it with her stamp, the only solid thing
passed down from her to me.
Its grip burnished to sheen from all that use,
my hand folds over the honeyed wood,
where once her palm pressed it
into the golden round,
leaving a perfect imprint of chevrons,
a cluster of strawberry leaves,
its seeded fruit,
on the gold-yellow spread,
and in that way, overlaid
all that had gone before:
blight blossom, down-lying,
poorhouse.