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…
listening.
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)