I grate, and grate, and grate, 
fingers seizing like having had written 
the sound of anticipation over and over 
and over again. 

All year, I stand nearby and watch
the shards of cheese jump and writhe 
under the coarse metal, but today – 
today is my birthday, the meal of
of all meals. 

The kitchen’s samba sways back and forth 
like feasting rituals long before me. 
Yet every year, I stand nearby with 
excited hands ready to let slip the 
mundane tastes and times of grating, 
melting, stirring, and baking.