smoked gouda 

my grandmother boiled milk
to drink before bed.
had hands like tree roots. 
cream in the fridge. her cat who 
at night convened with angels.
i only stayed over once. the hauntings 
smelled like chicken & newspapers.
sitting on the end of her bed
she sung to the dark without any teeth.
the tongue she kept in a jar. 
in the afternoon she took out
a wedge of smoked gouda. 
sunlight through her apartment window.
we ate one small piece at a time
like little mice in a room
too big for us. i know so little about
my elders. she took her eyes out
when we she was done & washed them 
in the sink. the radio as divination.
it talked in the voice of her husband,
a man without any bones at all.
i loved the cheese. had never had something
so rich & tasting of fire wood.
when left alone i snuck into the fridge
& nibbled right off the wedge.
salt & sweet. chewing. me, her 
little animal. a child in the thicket
of a heritage. we listened to opera 
& i pretended to like it for her.
i still wonder what she thought
when she went to take out the cheese later
& found my sneaky bites. did she curse me?
did she laugh? did she cut one straight line
to make the piece even?