soup

1977

one night with
just my toddler and me,
I peered in the fridge
puzzled through
the contents
what to eat?
no cash to shop
payday a week away

dug around the back
pulled out what I had
delicata squash
one spot of mold
a beet, tray
of chicken thighs—

maybe soup, I thought,
a little untraditional
but he likes soup
grabbed limp celery
weak-kneed carrots,
onion, homemade stock
I’d made from bones
last week—
it passed my sniff test

chopping, more chopping
the beet and delicata
were the hardest—
for a moment,
one tiny moment,
I missed the man
I’d sent away
his strong wrists
his potter’s hands

I rolled my shoulders
went back to work
the new creation
manna from leavings
chicken this ‘n’ that
I still make it today

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.