The Endarkenment

Self-Portrait as a Stick of Butter, or the four-day anniversary of my daughter’s birth

71 Self-Portrait as a Stick of butter, or the four-day anniversary of my daughter’s birth I am a stick of butter. I have not been cut into yet, but I have been unwrapped. I’m in the fridge, in a plastic tray that says butter. There’s nothing in here, except a jar with a single olive. It’s so dark. I don’t know that olive— all round and perfect in its glass. I wish someone would open the door and spread me over a warm piece of toast. I’m afraid I’ll be left out overnight on the kitchen table, and will melt into a puddle, useless. Someone will enter, say, yuck, look at this chemical junk. I’ll reply, I’m not all chemicals. There’s good in me too. In fact, I’m somewhat organic. But perhaps the someone is right. I close my eyes, count to one hundred. I tighten my muscles. I concentrate. become solid again. Uncut. A sturdy stick of butter, 72 back in the dish’s cradle. The olive glimmering like that hint of moon visible on a moonless night. ...