Sue Russell

she leans over the oven with her mittened hand
lifts out cinnamon-slathered rolls
flour opaques the tiny purple flowers
on her ragged apron as
caramel brown loaves release
their yeasty aroma
one white hair
drifts to the grey marbled formica table
nearby the almost square Pyrex dish belies
the royalty of the contents
its clunky glass lid and oxidized red surface
seem more suited to margarine
as I pick it up, the milky interior
reveals a hairline crack running to the base
I slide my finger along the fissure into silky butter
I keep the secret
there is so much to love in a cracked vessel