where we have each travelled
hours to meet, we debate
the merits of goat milk
versus sheep or cow, whether curds
should be plain or flavoured with
garlic and dill, if the aged cheddar
with kosher pickles will make
our salivary glands ache with
too much umami as if we had
been grinding our teeth all night.
We pass over those baited with bits
of bacon or ham. It’s only 2 pm
but the staff asks us to hurry—
they’re closing early for the holiday.
Oh yes, we respond. We forgot.
A salesperson scolds,
You can’t forget about Easter!
and we laugh, exchanging
the look we have practised
for thousands of years. On Sunday,
I head to the airport with
an insulated bag filled
with those chosen cheeses
that a TSA agent, hands wrapped
in disposable latex gloves
like a surgeon, rifles through,
muttering, as if I were muling
something other than cultured,
coagulated milk proteins amid
the sundry blessings of kinship.
For Annie
