So utterly butterly smug
we smear-up rock walls, triumph
oily finger-holds, fluent moves,
ticking off climbing topos,
we dance on Sella rock,
then slip slide along roads that wind
towards the restaurant,
Mantequilla, mantequilla, mantequilla
I rehearse, plan tapas, vino tinto,
when bread for my sardines arrives I ask
¿Dónde está la mantequilla, por favor?
I’d practised the whole car ride;
the waiter raises an eyebrow,
mutters la mantequilla está en el frigo . . .
I’ve lost my slick.
My climbing pal, who’d listened in the car,
now shakes, laughs:
The butter is in the fridge!
My dry loaf sits lonely on my side plate,
I realise I’ve simply learned
rote phrases
but not the fandango,
not how to ask, and be answered
in butter.