You are chatting
with my big brother--your uncle,
who wants to make cheese--
and cutting up a wedge of Tomme
de Savoie, explaining to him
how this one is particularly ripe,
finding its unique, piquant
funkiness, that sharp bite, little bits
of mold all through its bloomy rind,
and you are eating the pieces,
bloom and mold and all, and I
awake, punched through by an ache,
dumbstruck witness to a growing
I can not understand, can only stand under,
pulled up by the roots from within me.
Dirt falls back to earth.
Dust drifts down to the floor.
My mouth is full of clay—
“Please, let her take her time.”