A Pinch Too Much

Today, the pot simmers and speaks.  

Rosemary spills like secrets my mother  

once whispered over kitchen counters.  

Too much, she’d laugh, but never mean it.  

Salt clings to my fingertips, stubborn,  

melting into a broth that remembers.  

Chicken, torn by hand, uneven and  

honest, swims beside tiny carrot ships—  

the mirepoix rowing through waves  

of stock from store-bought cartons.  

The noodles—older than memory allows,  

dry and brittle as old regrets—wait  

until the boil is furious, chaotic, alive.  

Tomato paste squirted from a tube,  

half an idea for richness, a hue stolen  

from the sun. The Cholula was a choice,  

an act of rebellion against my father’s  

vinegar-sharp Tabasco sting.  

I taste the spoon.  

There’s too much of something I can’t name.  

Maybe too much space between homes.  

Maybe too little of her laugh.  

But the soup is hot enough to hold me.