one more meal

at times I can smell
what
my mother is cooking in the kitchen.

the onions and carrots,
the meat,
I can see her at the stove.

over the boiling pot
making stew,
lost in her own thoughts.

her seven children
bone thin
in the street, oblivious
to the news.

I see her slicing celery
on the board,
chopping potatoes.

before dark she'll call
us from the screen door.
tired, but happy
with one more meal behind
her.