Mutter “bread and butter”
several times aloud
when bees buzz by
and they will not sting.
These words will protect you from harm,
her mother promised. The child believed
and sat quietly in her chair. She did not swat
at them in panic like other children,
the ones who shrieked, and ran,
agitating the swarm, welts rising
on their arms and legs. Instead,
when the bees landed, she sat still
and under her breath
said the magic words,
observing calmly the yellow-jacket stripes,
admiring the flicker of amber cellophane wings,
noting the light touch when six spindly legs
twitched their way down her wrist.
I will be fine, she thought,
if I just say the words.
And she was.
Later, watching the needle slide into her veins,
observing the chemo drip slowly
while all around her the machines buzzed
and lights flickered in the ward, she gazed
at her own spindly legs tucked under a blanket,
and though she felt the sting,
she tried the phrase again.
Bread and butter, bread and butter,
she muttered to herself,
all the while
feeling the words
crumble in her mouth
like dry crust
peeling from a stale loaf.
–
Katherine Maynard is from Chapel Hill, NC, but after 36 years in South Burlington, VT, considers herself a Vermonter now. Her work has been published in Kakalak, Whale Road Review, Sojourners, St. Katherine’s Review, Kodon, Welcome Home, Lament for the Dead, and Poem City 2023. She teaches humanities and communication courses at the Community College of Vermont.