The secret of motherhood is stuck
at the bottom of one of my grandma's soup pots.
Somewhere along the way,
the recipe for the soup went missing.
The very last scrap of my grandma was gone–
and I never learned the recipe.
I burn the soup that I pretend is my grandma’s recipe
every time my younger sister asks me to make it.
I seek refuge in broccoli and cheddar soup to
help me mother.
to help my mother.
I burn the soup every goddamn time.
On the nights when my mother and sister cry,
I scrape every pot there is in the kitchen for hours
hoping to find the secret that once filled them with warmth.
When they cry louder,
I scrape the pots with my nails,
scratch and dig into the steel pots
until there’s a carmine soup to stir
over and over and over.
I taste the soup using the tip of my soulless finger
and fill myself with the secret within.
Motherhood requires bleeding.
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