There are tears in my soup pot

I am usually careful.

Nothing but what should be in there ever finds its way in

But I couldn’t stop the tears from streaming into the twirl as I stirred.


There are tears in my soup pot

Because I have now thought about all the things I wanted to tell you,

I have only now been able to articulate priceless lexes


I thought I shook you off my memory

As a serpent sheds old skin,

As soap blots off wanton stains off fabric


You were brawny as an oak tree

Magnificent, strong, and unusually beautiful

What happened?

That you suddenly became as feeble as Moringa branches

Became withdrawn,

Folded into yourself

Like mimosa-pudica in contact with touch


I couldn’t touch you any more,

I couldn’t nurse you

I couldn’t bear to see you like that


You were before strong and tall and carried your own weight

You had that loud, rich laugh that boomed and echoed like thunder

And it assailed my very essence,

Just like the first rains in April

I could see your bewitching smile even in the darkest of places

Felt your leathery hands

Widely roaming my skin

Ice cold fingertips blackened like lungs from cigarettes you smoked

Ichor in your blood

Delectation and fire on your insides

Anecdotal and epigrammatic sense of humor


Until the cold wind blew

And you shook

Whimpered and coughed

And all hope was lost


I stared at the mahogany box;

The last of your earthly possession lowered in with you

And I could not find the somber tears I so sought.

I couldn’t stop staring at the porcelain tiled spot

I wished that at any instant,


Bloodied from digging,

Covered in red earth

Would reach out and save me from this pain

This heart-wrenching hollowness.


I couldn’t believe you were gone

Only now that I stir the contents of my soup bowl

Doth it dawn on me

That you’re gone as the wind!