If I didn’t work in cheese, I’d be in oysters…
Photographer, Marji Guyler-Alaniz, documents women in agriculture as the subject of her latest project, FarmHer. Loving it.
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Hannah Rosengren 2013
by Jim Daniels
At department parties, I eat cheeses
my parents never heard of—gooey
pale cheeses speaking garbled tongues.
I have acquired a taste, yes, and that’s
okay, I tell myself. I grew up in a house
shaded by the factory’s clank and clamor.
A house built like a square of sixty-four
American Singles, the ones my mother made lunches
With—for the hungry man who disappeared
into that factory, and five hungry kids.
American Singles. Yellow mustard. Day-old
Wonder Bread. Not even Swiss, with its mysterious
holes. We were sparrows and starlings
still learning how the blue jay stole our eggs,
our nest eggs. Sixty-four Singles wrapped in wax—
dig your nails in to separate them.
When I come home, I crave—more than any home
cooking—those thin slices in the fridge. I fold
one in half, drop it in my mouth. My mother
can’t understand. Doesn’t remember me
being a cheese eater, plain like that.