Ode to Ravioli

Joan Mazza

Square pasta pillows filled with ricotta, mozzarella,
and flecks of parsley, sealed and bound with a beaten egg,

boiled until they float, rolling over each other until
tender, drizzled with sauce from jars I canned

last August when vines were heavy with plum tomatoes.
First snowflakes fall on the garden’s brown remnants

while we gather at a long dark table set with mom’s

Waterford and the Noritake china she bought
for my engagement, and Grandma’s silver, brought back

from her cruise to Italy, where she saw family
after forty years, wearing a dress and shoes without holes.

We serve them up on the oval platter that belonged
to Aunt Sarah, sprinkle Locatelli Romano.

Though you’re not here, I set your place at the table.


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