By John Dorroh

 

A friend dropped a white plastic bag onto the kitchen

table. It was loaded with 3 cheeses from Marcoot’s

Creamery – garlic herbed cheese curds, smoked gouda,

and Quark, a spreadable creamy cheese with a sweet

kiss on the palette. The wine was already open,

just like my heart in an old empty Dixie cup. Wipe off the

dust and pray that you drink faster than the cheap

paper dissolves in your hand.

I thought of those beautiful Jersey cows who gave the milk

that made the cheese that we ate on a Friday afternoon,

like helpless birds in our nest, waiting for delectable

morsels to be dropped into our mouths. We want to be fed,

we need to be fed, royal nectar of the bovine goddesses

who tenderize the ground about a mile from my house

on a regular basis. When the wind is blowing in the right direction,

I can hear their moos, and it makes me happy that I’m not

lactose intolerant.

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