My father dipped me in milk gravy
so thick and velvety I wanted to play
with it, mash it into the palm of my left hand.

He offered cathead biscuits before
school on dark January days after the
Christmas hangover. It was almost enough.

Cheese dies, you know? Not like forever
as an entity. More like a family phasing out of existence
from genes gone awry, uncalibrated miscalculations,
horrible matches in matrimony, substandard maintenance,
perhaps climate change.