riffed off of Dubrow’s “Bowl, in the Shape of a Bristol Boat”
Soup, in a Spoon for a Dying Mother
She spooned the soup for her, a stew so simple
it made itself overnight in the crockpot,
wafting aromas of onions, garlic, and greens,
its consistency, gumbo and tomato,
canned and seasoned, fresh and frozen from
the grocery store and the garden
which she tended herself. The thickening soup
mushroomed upward, began to boil.
No recipe required, no saucepan or cooktop.
The last taste of her daughter’s cooking or of any
of earth’s provision fed by human hand—
a sip of water, a pill for pain
from nurse or caregiver, a comfort.
She spooned the soup for her, as if to say
You are the daughter, I am the mother.
No comments:
Post a Comment