Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Soup

Red lentils, carrot, yams, apple,
onion, ginger, cut with care
out of the past, offered to the future,
seasoned with paprika, cumin,
chili powder, and the resilience of
the smallest in hot water.

Then I add broth and pour Canola
in drops as if sacraments
and hope to get the clogs
out of my blood, which careens wildly
and changes the heart, the mind,
and whatever else it rushes into.

My wooden spoon paddles
in the pot to stop carrots
from doing headstands, so I can
drown them to repair my cells.
The way of the world:
destroy something to fix something.

Diverting my attention to the task at hand,
I pinch the salt, the pepper, and me,
sure of how difficult I am.
Never a recipe, for I do not stand
in the shadow of anyone’s kitchen,
and I learned when to fold, how to stir,
and still keep my thoughts
on the ingredients
of the soup.