spiraled

i put on my cooking bandana,
the black and white one this time,
blue fabric gone soft and threadbare 
from the cycle of wash/rinse/repeat,
and i make pasta

my hands do not shake,
using serrated knife to carve 
chicken breast, maybe thigh,
into small chunks

tofu, broccoli, salt go into
a small pot together,
chicken in the oven,
water for spiral pasta boiling

i briefly wish for good crusty bread,
salad greens, maybe a bottle of 
cheap, sweet wine, split by two

this love language with nowhere
else to go, no one readily available 
to nourish, and i resent, fleetingly,
the day or two of leftovers 

belly full of good pasta,
lump in my throat,
loneliness like a promise,
like an old friend 

and i do not cry into the sink
full of dirty dishes, hot soapy water
and the music turned up real loud

i don’t cry into the sink
full of dirty dishes,
i don’t 
i don’t 
i don’t