A Stomach to Sleep On

My boy comes home hungry
from a full day at a friend’s house
where he forgot to eat.

I am making eggplant moussaka,
my Armenian mother-in-law’s recipe.
I have sliced the eggplant

into thin pieces, salted the circles
and let them stand, patted each one dry
before frying them. The chopped meat

still thaws on the counter. When he comes in,
unexpectedly hungry, there is nothing to eat.
He doesn’t like it when vegetables, sauce,

and meat touch. I scramble. Form the chopped
meat into a patty, place it in a sizzling pan
and flip it. I put a hunk of cheese on top, 

slide it onto a panini next to carrots and apples.
I add a mini watermelon cut in half
like a bowl so he can eat it with a spoon

the way he likes. Nothing special.
Now there isn’t enough meat for the moussaka.
Cooked eggplant sits on the counter. 

My mother-in-law’s dark eyes fade
and my family’s next warm meal
remains in pieces. But I don’t care

because I hear my ten-year-old son
strut out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and say,
Ah, this is a good stomach to sleep on.