By AIDAN COOPER
Where the chunks notice childhood
behind the awning of our mouths. How we’re domesticated dogs
with teeth sharp only for peanut butter.
Move me to the place you learned the crust carries
whistles. And the gumminess there,
in our translation, the heat, the heat
rushing our eyes, how they butter, and jelly. Until
we’re licking the sap off our fingers, until
we’ve got some kinship to crumbs. Stir
the jam of my knee between your legs.
We will make us a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
That is to say, we are slight rememberings of the jars
we were spooned from. That is to say,
I’ll hand you an abundance of strawberries. Soothe those teeth against their tightness and this spring will
smell of nostalgia-making. Let us smear it about our
bodies again. Let’s get so close together
and knead chunky peanut butter to the creamy kind.
Writer | Aidan Cooper ’26 | acooper26@amherst.edu
Editor | Sam Spratford ’24 | sspratford24@amherst.edu