The garlic was a secret, Mama said,
thin fingers dusting the meat, like gold;
I trace patterns in the flour
left in snowdrifts on the butcher block
countertop, big muscular men and sultry women
concealed knives in their coats -
Mama smiles, lines cracking her face,
I remember the Swedish beauty queen who had
once been my mother, who had bathed me,
spent midnights on the phone with unseen men.

Oil crackles on the stovetop,
extra virgin, cold pressed - She told me this,
pressing a glass of wine into my sweaty palm
"You'll like it, it's Argentinian"
I like it, it swirls down my throat with energy,
pooling and I am heady with initial drink -
She stirs the saucepan, adding the garlic,
big thick cloves like pearls dotting the
red tomato sea
fragrant

Mama's secrets are hidden behind
laughing irises,
in the topography of her hands as she
digs bulbs from the garden, slices the roast -
Keeping nothing but books and song,
and a simple gold band.

The garlic was a secret, Mama said,
like the good winery on 42nd, the butcher from the hills
that sells prime cut.
She winks as she says this, deft hands marked with
lines and spots, the tomato falling into even
pieces.

She nicks herself with the blade
and brings the shallow cut, red surfacing
to her mouth.