by Eileen Frankel Tomarchio Mike Kenneally When her last teeth fell out, she pined for her earliest tastes. Day-old polenta, butter-fried and syruped. Vats of reeking bagna cauda , soaked bread. Bones of the dead made from almond meal, crackling under a dust storm of sugar. She gummed her knuckles raw with remembering. When she could no longer grip knife and fork, she stabbed at tomato casings with her nails, twined steaming angel hair through her fingers into cat’s cradles.