American Cheese

American Cheese
K Magill


I do not love him yet
I love not knowing him
he has the pure mystique
of a grilled cheese sandwich
inside, I know, is gold

he has that utterly American allure:
redolent of Whitman and Kerouac,
of vintage Schwinns, of genuinely faded denim,
glowing diners, dim bohemian cafés,
the yellow double-stripe
down the center of the highway

but American allure
is not American at all.

it is the absence of allegiance
that intrigues me: his past
as I imagine it
is filled with labor unions, zydeco,
maple syrup, mailboxes,
chickenpox and mistletoe, and a woman
who makes sourdough waffles
every Saturday morning
and serves them to children
glued to the Looney Toons,
serves them with the fierce love
of a mother on the brink
of losing all her reasons why,
of drowning in the kitchen sink,
fears the morning she wakes up alone,
fears the evening she holds the receiver
and never hears a word past the dial tone--

it is the same in every home, that’s why I love him
love not-him, love the history
I read beneath his skin
America is etched into his bones
but it’s not America at all
America is an idea and what I love
is the pure warm breath and being
not his breath his being
but it’s there in him, so why not?

why not nod and smile, and say yeah,
I really dig him, maybe talk about
his eyes, because it is all there
in his eyes: brown and universal
or his smile, cause when a person smiles
the way he does it is a mirror
revealing the beautiful people
the ugly-but-sweet people
the people who sing, who fix mufflers,
who knit hats for other people’s children
these are the ones I love! the many I love!

but what if I get too close
stare too deep and idiomatically into his eyes?
in the narrow focus of infatuation
we lose our panoramic passion
we forget the we entirely
forget the bustling boulangeries
forget to read other people’s poetry
forget the grilled cheese sandwiches
(not American, but fontina, camembert, havarti!)
forget that every body has a history
beyond the flesh and bones,
but in the blood – life is circulatory!

or perhaps I’m just afraid of the plunge,
afraid the ocean will be too cold, or not cold enough.
what if we kiss and still don’t feel alive?
what if his tongue doesn’t tear the breath from my lungs?
and does it matter? in any case
it can’t go on like this, we’ll have to kiss
and say it’s good or say it’s bad,
tell people we’re in love or not-in-love

never again will we have
the intimacy we have now:
the intimacy of mystery, of distance, of imagined history
and this is why it is impossible
sitting in the coffee shop
talking to the girl behind the counter
this girl I knew in high school
who still pulls such a sweet ristretto
who thinks she’s asked me such a simple question

this is why it’s impossible to tell her
what’s up between me and this guy
because it’s not me and this guy
it’s me and the world
but it’s not me and the world
it’s the world alone all there is:
the bread and coffee
the grilled cheese sandwiches
the way the slices melt until there are no slices anymore
and I don’t feel so bad about my clumsy metaphors
because they are not mine they’re ours