Yellow rice maze spans white plates
after Sunday dinner my mother made.
Dad, Gee, and I just ate.
Mom clears her throat.
My belly, bloated and bulging,
buzzes with dopamine.
I feel great while the blue flame
licks the white kettle behind her.
Mom, whose plate skipped rice speckles,
food skips and sticks in her throat.
She wears a brown wool coat
with only three buttons
sewn in blue thread
because she can still pinch needles
with her irradiated thimbles.
“You alright, Ma?” I ask twice
because I watched her spit up rice
she isn’t supposed to eat
but cooks anyway.
Maybe blue is her too,
the kettle whistle.
I think Mom misses Goya.
I’m sorry, Mom.