MAKING SOUP

MARIEL FECHIK

 
 

            one afternoon you go missing.
 

the last time I saw you
you held a bentness in your hands,
 

                        brittle as a bird’s wing &
                        warmed by your frantic touch–
 
            how little you seemed.
 
                        how undone.
 
after searching everywhere, I find you
            stooped over pilot flames
 
boiling a silent alchemy of
 
            root vegetables and grief.
 
you have gone earthen, cool to the
touch
 
                        waterlogged
 
                                    heavy in the gloam.
 
            the house settles into itself,
            you into it
 
your hands, mute
 
                        stirring–

 

 
 

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