So smooth and piquant then. Remember?
Our love a puree of roots and bitters,
quick peppered, swift boiled
blobbed up and sulphurous.
Melting the ladle, melting the pot,
smoking the burner, firing
the whole damn kitchen down.
Yes, it still stings my lips,
flaps on my uvula, something
never fully swallowed
but scorched on a hard palate,
peeling skin on the blistered roof
of a recollection.
It was tough then, I know,
making soup last for days,
for weeks, for years.
We were young then
and fond of quick eats,
grabbed before a cab
and shoveled whole,
gulped like a snake
teasing eggs –
unhinged and transient.
But savor these broths unclouded, love,
clear to the windmills, blue and Dutch
at the bottom of the bowl.
Draw the spoon, gentle and away,
lift and breathe softly, eyes closed,
and take what remains, what lingers –
velvet on the buds and nourishing.