What the Fuck is Cheese? 

Heather Wolf

I texted her at 3 AM. 

I was already up, 

reaching for the phone to tell her

the way she made me feel was like

cement drying in my stomach,

late night kisses drawn on the pavement 

in my shaky child’s scrawl.

“What the fuck is cheese?”

I texted her, even though I already knew the answer—

it’s something good left alone for long enough,

growing mold until it makes something else,

something that tangs on your tongue like the words “I love you,”

which is what I was trying to text her. 

But instead I say things like milk

in the hope it will make her laugh

so hard she will forget to clean me up,

and instead leave me out overnight

to grow mold.