Burnt Toast

When I was a kid, grandma would make toast–

Burnt toast. The only kind that grandma would,

The only kind that grandma could.

She’d butter it most days with Fleishman’s and jam,

From that big jar of raspberry goodness,

And sometimes with peanut butter, swirled atop the black crust.

Then cut it in half, and serve on a chipped blue onion plate,

The only kind that grandma had,

The only kind that grandma thought good enough for me.

And then she’d make another two slices,

And stack them, in halves, on the pile.

The kitchen smelled of old things and smoke.

And half by half, through the slow day we would

Chip at the toast, the bread of our life,

Just enough, darkened with love, sustaining and light.

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