Connor Colbert

poem about churning butter

i think this could be relaxing
sitting on the porch
watching the afternoon mountains violet
talking with the neighborhood cats
stirring dairy around a bucket
as the sky lays down her bright arms
i think of possibilities
like honey butter
or lemon butter
on their way out the door claire says
what about cinnamon honey butter
like at texas roadhouse
and i think absolutely
we need this
in the tutorial video rachel tells me i can use a hand mixer
which i immediately find not relaxing
then there is a commercial for a hair dryer
then rachel is back chipper as ever
shaking cream in a mason jar
which her husband has been working on
offscreen, she is sure to tell us
as she plugs another sponsor
none of this what i had hoped for
i have run once again
into the arms of a shapeless and greasy nostalgia
cosplaying a homesteading bucket woman
when the reality is flattening history
into simple images like survival on the plains
had nothing to do with erasing entire nations of people
and species and ecosystems now
what i am doing here is procrastinating
and despairing because
i haven’t eaten
i have to cut these onions 
i have to open this sad bag salad which boasts
our team of food scientists and agricultural experts 
are committed to exceeding industry standards
and i am not that hungry anymore but
maybe i need better greens
in the fridge there is a box of suspicious arugula
i use it and give up on rachel
give up on her husband
give deeper into american past times
put on blue kentucky girl and want things
like a bucket to churn 
a destiny to manifest
an untangled history
i want a montuckey
i miss montana
and its big sky 
and expansive cruelty
a history which resonates still 
every night when the sun goes down
i would look up at the stars and think
this is not a safe place
carrying my bear spray to the bathroom 
of the truck stop
washington is so full
of headlights and espresso huts
parades of patagonia gear 
coming down the mountain
and yet i have health insurance so
how lucky am i to be here
on this evening alone with no plans
and these perfect conditions for poetry
in the buttery grip of an underbaked melancholy 
sipping my great american legacy
a drinking problem
my persistent stream of reaction
to this fucked up and gorgeous scene
of geological wonder and modern dread
i will write such a good poem tonight 
full of movement and meaning
and it will have a perfect transition into
the story my artist friend told me
about his boss being commissioned 
to build a centerpiece supertree  
above the world’s largest underground parking structure
composed entirely of this beautiful variety of cedar 
which is rapidly going extinct 
because of climate change
and we’ll both feel so satisfied 
at this experience of art so well done
that i’ll offer you some towelette to wipe the cheesy residue from your eyeballs
like a napkin which is also made of paper
sitting before me wrinkled and white
instead of that good poem 
with purpose and poignance 
i have this poem about daydreaming butter
instead of that good poem 
i have a mouthful of ketchup at liftoff
repeating like a mantra across the page
my religion is hot dog worship
my prayers are all fag jokes
my poems all go nowhere 
like their deadbeat dad 
on the run from realities of a country
of suspiciously cheerful people
who record videos about churning butter 
with a dyson sponsorship and don’t see
the clouds of birds in their dreams lately 
migrating morosely westward
across these red fields after the sun 
until there is no place west-er
no further place to go
what comes after hairdryers stop selling
what comes after the cream dries up 
what comes after distraction 
what comes after nostalgia
what comes after this
what comes after
my meaning less where 
are we going
and more what is it 
that follows