He told her to slice it gingerly,
and Jeannie said, “How you mean?”
He squared his ‘Nam thumb-nub
against the rind to make two tiny halves,
his gnarled knuckles grinding
tart green off that key lime.
Always trust Elsie the cow—
he’d wink and pour
Borden’s buttermilk in the bottom
of the tin pan, slow and smooth,
the way he always talked to us.