Dough on my hands

Dough on my hands,

white flour like snow

I don't know

how to make it right.

The recipe,

her shaky hand,

a faded list

I don't understand.

Not just the words,

the magic touch.

Mine's gummy, thick,

it isn't much.

It doesn't smell

like the old steam,

doesn't taste

like any dream

I had of home,

the deep warm broth,

a cloud that melts

and leaves no froth.

Just this gray lump

in a cold bowl,

a hollow space

inside my soul.

The kitchen's wrong.

It's just a dish.

But this, this isn't

what I wish.