Mommy’s Cooking Soup
Better Than Bouillon boils in the pot, waiting
for Mommy to stir. She twists the spoon in her hand,
grazing scraped metal, watching for the water
to pop!, for the vegetables to rise and fall, waves
raging against the sea, reaching for the sky.
I don’t tell her I hate the sound of the spoon
crawling across the pot, metal on metal,
sloshing the contents until they gurgle.
I smile and nod, watch her stir, hover
over the heat like it’s her purpose in life.