My mother hummed, boiled, and stirred...
I drowned potatoes in her tomato soup,
my tongue drenched in red cream
swimming with chicken oil on one summer breakfast.
Lips together in delight,
my heart quickened to say grace
for the gift of a box full of potatoes
that made its way into our home
as quiet as I ate the loneliness of the dining table.

My mother returned, hurried, and stared.
My plate and its friends stared back,
gaping at her surprise by the sink.
I ask if they have eaten, my question
hungry to invite her into my appreciation.
She commands me to wash my dishes
but I salute the sink, order it
to wait...