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Peanut Butter

A poem

Published on:
September 11, 2017
Read time:
1 min.
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I wish I could say
I feel no less for having been crushed
into a simple, shelf-stable cylinder,
a mother serene as peanut butter.
A thousand possibilities
have been suspended
beneath a foiled paper lid.
Preserved and cupboarded
in patient anticipation.

But I am half-used up.
Peaks and canyons from hasty knife-work
are a sign as sure as footprints and flags
that someone has already claimed this jar.
I grow hollow.

I find it hard to swallow
disappearing into the bodies of my children.
Though I give myself over to being spread
across raw-edged celery or softer bread,
I still cling to the corners of a rounded life.
I tell myself I am no less for having been gouged.

But I am never so empty
that a small hand twisting a red lid
would fail to find a mouth forever formed
to say “okay.”

Laura Lundgren
Laura Lundgren is a former English teacher, current homemaker, and an aspiring amateur enthusiast of many kinds of writing. She makes her home in Wisconsin with her husband, who is also her pastor, and her four young kids. You can find more of her writing at her blog.

Cover image by Alisa Anton.

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