I waited for dinner,
my legs swinging
under the table.
A pot on the stove
was hissing with steam.
My mother rushed
cabinets to burner
reaching the water
just as it began
spilling over.
Pouring the ravioli
into a strainer
I heard her
begin to weep, softly,
arms bracing the counter.
"Lord, I have nothing else to feed them."
The pasta had burst
the cheese ruined,
small clumps
lying in the drain.
"Momma, stop crying, we don't have to eat tonight."
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