Saturdays my father brought out his hoard
of forbidden foods from his cousin’s store.
Sometimes we had kielbasa with sauerkraut,
hot brown mustard, and bottles of Pepsi.
One day he brought out farmer’s cheese.
Not kielbasa. I hated cheese.
Cheese was rubbery, the bright color
of trucks that crowded my brother’s room.
The white cube stood on the plate. Alone.
It was solid, not wrapped in sticky plastic.
My father cut chunks of white cheese,
Polish cheese from his cousin’s store. It tasted
much better than Mother’ skim milk,
a little sharp, but not too sharp,
not plastic, not a toy.
[This is a Featured Poem from our Spring 2024 Poetry Contest.]
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