The Catch

The steam from the pasta water is thick and wet,

turning my hair into limp, heavy strings.

I finally understand why she used to just stare

at the wall when the neighbors would knock.

'Save your breath for the soup,' she’d say,

and I thought it was just a way to be cruel.

But my throat is tired of explaining myself

to people who only want to take.

I lay the wooden spoon across the top of the pot.

The white foam rises, hits the wood, and breaks.

It stays inside the rim. It doesn't spill.