Soup

Your mushroom soup made me handsome.
I saw myself in the mirror after I had it;
pulsing enzymatically,
growing vessels inside me together
new mycelium in an old jar of rye.

Afterwards, I broke your hair dryer,
and that was ugly, and I was not very sorry,
so I became broken, and could not make you beautiful.

These days, we get by with our separate meditations,
our schedules which don't overlap,
and for me, the terrible imbalance of income.

But regardless, I could still cook;
there are plenty of things for stock;
raw emotion, hot tempers, sprouted doubt,
pressed stress, brined wounds.

I could boil something
not so good for the soul,
something really wretched to take in.
Thinking this way is a talent,
it's what I went to school for,
It's my dearest way to be.

And yet again, I've much more to learn
under your guidance, to begin with
that no matter what of us I've decocted,
you'd still deign to dine with me.