Today’s slow cooked ragu
has a lot of familiar ingredients
but spun a little different

The devil in the pork grease
gave me such a wink
I lost my place in the recipe

Liberal with salt, chili flakes,
zest and anything,
this quixotic cook’s hand
throws much freer than weekdays

I only lack the fat slack
of pappardelle for this,
as they were out at the supermarket

Penne will have to do

If it involves you, pasta or sunsets count me in.

(noun)
--A dock in the sea at which boats may anchor

That's the definition Google gave
But if you ask me,
Google doesn't know ****

Because no matter how many pages
I've searched
Or links that I've clicked
Google can never tell me how many times
you've made me laugh
more genuinely
than I thought myself capable

No algorithm can pinpoint
how many hours we spent on that
front porch swing
covered by empty Barefoot bottles
letting our heels sink in awe
of the world we had in front of us

Trust me that no "I'm Feeling Lucky" button
could ever lead me up the steps of
that little apartment
where i learned that your
dollar store pasta,
simple as it may,
will always be my favorite

And may it
not by God or some invisible hand
be the reason i believe in fate

You.

Always my North Star,
together you and I make
a really ****** compass.
But then again we've never held
trust to anything but our guts
to tell us we are
heading in the right directions.

And so many directions we have taken,
to think all the conversations
we've held about
the places we'd end up
were just the billboards
we didn't know we were passing

Okay--maybe Google's definition wasn't so far off then.
You my friend are more than just a season
You are the life, and the warmth, and the beauty
of our favorite June night
even in the dead of winter
The fog on the windows of your house
are reminders of every breath that has escaped you, every
breath you'll never be able to catch
every breath you have stolen

Enough to heat a home.

So i know that no matter how rough the waters
or smooth my ocean's floor,
I, my lonely ship,
know I can always have a place to anchor

Marina.

Gonna carry out the feministic agenda
Gonna live, laugh and love lasagna
Gonna save the earth from the ocean
Gonna let the boys show some kinda emotion
Ravioli, yo, that pasta is tenda
Now what should I call ya, Genda benda?

strained is
supposed to be
a word
for pasta
not
relationships.

She told me that she never had real spaghetti before.
Of course she's had spaghetti before but not in the sense that made it worthwhile.
When I asked why she replied that it didn't feel real.
That in a sense it was pasta.
She always broke the noodles when she made it.
She developed a fear that everything would boil over and catch fire.
That part of the noodles would be too crunchy.
All of it would never fit in the ***.
Her mother always broke the noodles so it just became habit.
In the same breath.
She told me at least once,
That she'd like to twirl the noodles around the fork.
The complete taste and feel of what makes it spaghetti.
The cheese blending into the sauce.
The big ball of noodles just wrapping around the fork waiting to be bit.
When I asked about the meatballs she laughed,
She was vegetarian