She tells me in the only way she can,
hands me her heart,
dough pleated tidy under her fingers,
seam curved snug against my palm.

The straightforward mixture,
beef, scallion, frustration, garlic, affection,
enveloped within fragile, stubborn dough,
doesn’t look like much of a gift.

This is how she loves me,
spice and oil crisp against my lips.

Elizabeth Yalkut

Elizabeth Yalkut

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