She’s in front of me at the bank,
hair nestled on top of her head,
and I can tell this woman knows
what to put between two crackers.
I get hungry watching her,
not because she looks good to eat,
but because I can imagine her fingers
rolling dough into balls, powdered sugar
stuck to her knuckles. I can picture
the delicacies she’d load onto a tray,
serve to children in a circle on the floor,
or to me, in bed, recuperating from a sudden
illness for which there might not be a cure.
I’ve always found it hard to prepare
my own meals, long for someone else
to place my dinner on the table, someone
who asks for nothing in return.
Mothers will do that, fathers maybe,
siblings rarely because all they want
is what the other one has. This woman looks
like she has a bunch of sisters who all make
good snacks while they criticize one another’s
children. They go on trips, giant coolers filled
with homemade breads packed tight in the trunk,
pâté to kill for. I envision this woman washing
her hands, lavender scented soap, before she readies
the roast for the oven, a prime rib she’ll serve
to a silent husband.