Nonni

Watching the salted
water rolling softly
in a shiny pot, I realize
my Nonni

wouldn’t know me now:
no olive oil in the house,
putting butter on the pasta
when it’s done…shaking cheese

out of a can onto the sticky pile
in the bowl.
This is hunger, I’d tell her
if she was here: I’m just hungry.

She’d frown, her lips turned down
the same way her hands curved and curled
over the wooden stick she used
to roll the fresh dough out for her spaghetti,

her quadretti, her wandi.
Always a white enamel pan
full of meat and sauce in the ancient fridge —
but she never called it sauce.  It was always gravy.

She could lay out a meal, nothing fancy,
just good food that satisfied,
in no time. I’m fast too
when it’s time to eat,

but it’s not the same.
And I don’t know how
to make it so.  So instead
I turn my back on her

and stuff the naked noodles into me
and try to fill myself.  I’ll likely eat
the whole pan, fall asleep
early, and wake up still hungry.

In the morning I’ll stare
into the fridge and look for
gravy in a battered pan.
And I won’t cry.  Not again.