Would you like some soup?

Would you like some soup?
It’s pumpkin. I grew the pumpkins
myself, in my own garden.
I watered them with my own hands,
fed them with manure and straw.
I trained the trailing vines to safety
as the pumpkins budded, burgeoned, ripened;
and then the vines withered.
I broke off the heavy pumpkins one by one,
carried them inside, and today,
chose one for soup.

Listening to the CD, the one you gave me,
I forced the pumpkin open with my knife,
seeded it with a spoon held in my hand,
peeled and chopped it with my knife,
held in my hand,
cooked it, pureed it, mixed in salt,
onion, pepper, nutmeg, butter…

Don’t be in a hurry, not this time.
Don’t rush off to your noisy place.
Don’t leave me, alone with my soup.

There is music in my soup
and butter
and a pumpkin
grown with my own hands.
I made it just for you
with my own hands
thinking of you
for months
as the vines and pumpkins grew
and as I picked and peeled and chopped and stirred
with my own hands
just for you.
Would you like some soup?
I made some good bread, too.
come into my house and let me feed you.

(First published in Fieralingue)