Vingt-sept

I made some soup today

with crushed pepper

and bits of cabbage floating in it.

Threw in some of Eliot for good measure,

the prickly pear stirred in by the coffee spoons

and I watched it turn grey.

A sickly grey, that made one think

of hospitals and bird vomit.

Unable to stand the sight,

I carefully grazed the edge of my left thumb

with my bread knife, the serrations running

across my skin, like a goods train.

I drew blood, inverted my thumb above the soup bowl

squeezed above the little wound

squeezed in 2 or 3 drops into the bowl.

I don't know what I was thinking.

I was thinking of Iranians and couscous,

the Maharashtrian green glass bangles,

and my loved one's hands on the small of my back.

Yet I wasn't really thinking.

I looked down ,

the soup turned brown.

Not red, not pink, but brown.

A dirty, murky, rummy brown.

I was disappointed.

I was a romantic,

but my soup cured me.

Now I'm stoic.

I dipped my spoon and drank my soup

My soup, my unexpectedly brown soup.