Why Mozzarella

 

It started with cheese sticks on a Saturday morning

reached on tip-toe from the right-side drawer of the refrigerator. 

Peeled plastic independence on the way to see 

Ariel fall in love just one more time. 

 

Then onto slices with tomatoes

roasted with olive oil dripping over capers

for lunches with my mother. 

Let us indulge, she says, every time she takes a bite. 

 

And cheese sticks, again, on a Saturday morning,

or rather a Friday night that didn’t end. Biting through

and not pulling. Too tipsy to wish for webbing

wrapping around my tongue. 

 

Next onto pizza made with homemade everything

a promise he made to feed and cherish the work

we have done. Our attempt to do better, to fulfil

the tasks we laid before us. 

 

No, back to cheese sticks. Pulling at the strings to find what even might be joy.