A Taste of Home

Garlic hangs like a ghost tonight,

clinging to the kitchen air

where Mom’s roast chicken once ruled

and thyme sifted like forgotten prayers.

The plate still wears its story —

a smear of gravy, rosemary needles scattered

like crumbs from a story told too many times,

or maybe not enough.

I taste the heat, but maybe hunger’s doing most of the work,

a hunger for the past that slips

between my teeth, slipping,

maybe just slipping away.