the tang of mashed potatoes
the chickensoup smell of sick
the pale lavender of gramma's perfume
but gramma, she dead! back she comes,
wafting on fumes of swedish meatballs,
fresh peas, meatloaf and spaghetti,
with which she stuffed my little face,
my sinews growing and cording
(seen in fast motion),
these are the sinews of gramma's cooking
though long since have those atoms gone within,
my body throve on gramma's foods
that old dull familial love
like a ragged, ugly blanket, utilitarian,
not sexy, but nourishing, like mashed potatoes.