Inherited Hungers

My childhood does not consist of

kneading hands in flour and lard

with Abuelita,

standing back a careful distance

as Mama fries chicken in cast iron,

pins rolling pappardelle flat,

while Nonni stirs the sauce,

or the scent of Bubbe’s matza soup

filling the kitchen like a symphony.

No, no.

In my memory—

microwaved meatloaf and cold cereal,

order-in pizza; the scent of grease

lingering three nights a week.

No family gathered around the table.

Left alone to eat until my plate was clean.

Food was a need, not a comfort.

Now it’s a comfort I need.