Starch

The sky is gray and flat, like a wet sidewalk.

I’m standing in the kitchen,

watching the steam rise off the pot

until the windows go blind.

I’m trying to make the noodles right,

but they’re just limp. They’re too soft.

The smell of the tin from the sauce—

it’s her. The way she’d bury the empty cans

deep under the coffee grounds and the eggshells

so we’d think it was hers. I use the bowl

with the chipped blue rim.

I think I’m lonely for a version of her

that didn’t buy dinner in a jar.

Or maybe I'm just hungry.