Pasta Fritta

It’s too hot. Gotta wait. Can’t wait.
Sprinkled with white powder,
sugar that shows the way
to press and pull it open like a locket.
It’s a shell waiting to be puddled
with apricot jam.
“Pasta fritta,” says Carmen,
my childhood friend.
I can’t understand the language
but I understand the smell of egged flour.
I understand the sound of spitting oil.
I hear her mother singing it.
It’s Italian for comfort, for soothe, for love.
Have another while it’s warm.

Marilyn Zelke Windau (Sheboygan Falls) started writing poems at age thirteen. A former art teacher, she has had four books of poetry published. An award-winning author, her work may be found in many journals and anthologies. She includes her maiden name to honor her father, who was also a writer.