I wrote this poem over a pot of soup. With all these babies to feed, it happens more than you’d think.
Culinary hypothesis
Why do people chop their spinach
when you can rip it with your hands instead?
That way, you really get a sense of it,
the greenness of it, in vellum-soft shreds
before it falls, to brighten the pot of soup
simmering on the stove
Your hands become aware of its leafy-ness—
so much so, you can feel the chlorophyll
verdant, lush with nutrients
between your fingers
Looking closely, you can see—
each tear streaks along perforated lines
of brick-layered cells
and inside, the deep green of life
still runs through each one
You find yourself recalling stained glass slides
under a microscope in third grade,
and textbook diagrams emerging in 3D
Is it just me, or did science class inspire an appetite?
Peeling gauzy layers of an onion,
paring a mushroom with surgical precision,
you’d see the meticulous detail of things.
Later you’d find yourself dissecting a spaghetti noodle
wondering what it’s made of—
and whether you could fully appreciate the thing at all
without knowing.
I’ve written poems over balls of dough, but never pots of soup.