Peel back the gauze,

the mesh-work,

the skein of your vast

improbable being.

I want to see

the spaces where your pain

is still fresh,

those wounds which

are still malleable.

I want to see you

before you’ve shriveled

into a scar,

into prisms of panic

and unfinished flesh.

An inchoate soup simmers

on a hearth of my own design.

Into the pot I press

your inconsolable words

and your tears vague as dew.

The only way to know a man

is to consume him, piecemeal,

without the ruse of sentiment.

There can be no secrets between us

only omissions and oversights.


14 responses to “Soup

  1. Hmmm. I think it’s the act of doing this, of exposing this, that makes us shrivel. If we don’t give words to our injuries, then they don’t exist. But I’m probably in the minority with that line of thinking. 😉

    Good luck getting a man to say yes to these demands, though!

    • For me it has proven toxic to keep my feelings bottled inside. Sometimes I am not ready to deal with an issue (I don’t have the internal resources, external support, haven’t gotten far enough the healing process whatever). Sometimes I have no choice but to set the issue, whatever it might be, to the side (call it surviving, coasting, being preoccupied, being practical whatever). Eventually when I am ready, when things are going well the issue invariably resurfaces demanding some form of resolution. It happens in steps and stages though, I have learned I can’t fix it all at once and no amount of force or coercion is going to change that. This poem is tongue-cheek though. I do have a loving, supportive husband and he picks more at his metaphorical scabs than I do. He is the one who asks the really hard questions. We are both pretty intense in some ways but in others very relaxed. I am not entirely sure I responded appropriately to your comment, really long day!

  2. Omissions and oversights after consuming piecemeal. Being intact still, I’m happy at home after reading this! Seriously well done with lots of emotion underneath the words.

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