The language curls around the phone

The language curls around the phone,

old words sharp like broken glass.

My mother’s voice lingers

with a rhythm I’ve not held in years.

Recipes passed down,

scribbled in looping script

on yellowed pages,

a memory tasting of pepper,

of salt, of bitter herbs.

She tries to recreate

the flavors of a home lost

beneath new skies,

her voice a thread

between then and now,

soft and persistent.