Late October. Like oranges squashed
by speeding trucks or sun
face-flat on white beads of dirt
and spurting curses, pumpkin risotto simmers,
stirred with wooden spoon,
circled by a backdrop of teflon
against flat counter and wildflower tiles.
You confront steam, avoid my arms.
Through the terrace doors,
a tabby cat slinks.
It is midday in the kitchen,
your grandmother preferred
these auburn-eroded tones in life.
I say nothing. Lunch will soon be ready.
Till then you chatter about today's news,
the television fills in the details.
Gaps? No gaps. The pithy warmth
of amylopectin stifles the space between us.