As a foreigner

my identity

was against it

by default

But later
as a mother
I was
to make sandwiches

I turned away
from my American child

to hide a grimace
as the knife
slid on the oily surface

extracting
a hanging grub
the mustard of
dusty, old
midcentury velvet couches

I nagged my husband

for separate utensils

fear
of contamination

Then, one day
I was stranded

starving
under a sleeping child

The sandwich still
under his chubby fingers

bitten only once
about to fall

I moved
the free arm
closed my eyes
as survivors on TV

brought it to my lips

and bit it

Sweet swirls swimming

in fat
Thick, creamy
Fat

fromage de meaux

Unpasteurized

Beautiful body of butter

The jelly sandwiches of the past
were the ones
meant only for children

dry and bodiless

the superficial joy
of chips
from a vending machine

As I prepared
to bite again
More
than in that citizenship

swearing ceremony

earlier that month

I felt
As an American