being strong

Loves die. People die.

I am pragmatic, they tell me.
Robbing me of the wish
that it won’t happen to me.

I am strong, they remind me.
Not allowing me to cower
and tremble in his arms.

I am wise, they tell me.
I should not expect them
to calm my worries.

I sit alone in a room;
the solace I allow me
is endless cups of tea.

The Pasta-rollers

I am sent an ordinary photograph.
It shows
a kitchen in beige and white,
blonde wood countertops.
A row of glass jars, with shiny caps.
In the foreground, a boy and his father
are making pasta. They wear
matching orange sweatshirts
and concentrate on the dough.
There is nothing special about it.
Scenes like this are played every night
in a hundred, a thousand households.
I stare at it all day.