I look at you, and you ask me what
is behind my eyes —
a bowl of soup,
already cooking before you ask
a pair, night walk, pit stop
for every cat, warm sweat between palms
you hunched, pained, in the tub,
hot water, distraction on your toes,
face on my lap
the first one we shared
confessions about my mother
daydreams of watching water
daydreams of walking in
daydreams of a fallen eyelash wish…
many died today, the same
as yesterday. did you use your wish
for them? for the survivors, the departed?
for the kids and infants? for
the Palestinians, the Sudanese, the Congolese? was it for your brother, or
everyone like him? or did you wish for all
our mothers, who have children like us?
or was it a wish for all the children like us, pitiful and trying to recover something lost
before we were born?
I only share the sweetest light
behind my eyes, the times when
the light reflected is you. so
we might rest for a moment…
I go home, late after closing
the bar. it's cold so I make soup
and think of making soup
for you. people are dying and I can
make soup. I can make sure
you live a little longer.
& what longing a bowl of soup
really fills, but a mouth,
a stomach, a night singular
& still to do
the thing my mother did
for me, the small passing
a bowl is, filled with
the grace brewed right
into the broth, warning
away the cold,
we make sure we live
a little longer
to ask us what
we do after living
with our little longer
