Suzette is making dinner,

     I say on one of those calls

without a holiday to justify when

     Nana wants to hear my voice.

 

Louder than before, Nana

     chuckles & replies a little wildly

as if talking to her ex-husband

     through a steel sieve:

 

Must be nice for someone

     to cook dinner for you.

Could our daily creations

     never cross her mind?

 

How we nourish each other

     through our twenties? The night

stews a simple acidic mélange

     of fish, nightshades, roots.