The Taste of What We Owed

The Greek deli punched a hole right through

my afternoon, lamb steam

a ghost on the windowpane,

and suddenly it’s the chipped enamel pot,

the heavy air in her kitchen,

paprika dust on everything,

even the arguments.

Her moussaka, crusty edges,

a little burned,

the béchamel like a tired,

uneven blanket.

Waiting for someone to say

it was too dry, or not enough.

Never just right.

Always a debt owed,

in salt, in silence,

in the spoon that scraped the bottom.

The taste, still stuck

in the back of my throat.