Sonnet for My Grandparents
You, doused in sugars from my papa’s cane. You, a sickening cinnamon burning. And this plum amidst your wet, fat folds: pain: It knows of none. Nonna’s dough is churning. Pubescent grand-kids shunned sugar-gnocchi All the while adults gorged, and nonna fed. Tongue-buds grew. Sweet-lover,
