The Container

The container sat outside my door,

still warm with steam still rising.

I knew exactly who brought it before

I even opened it. Now I'm deciding

what I owe her for this care.

She lives downstairs and watches more

than I want. The soup is there

still hot. I can't ignore

the fact that I was noticed.

That she saw I wasn't managing.

That my light came on late. That I focused

on hiding. But her soup sits on my landing,

and now I've got this debt.

Not money. Something that costs more.

The knowledge that I've been met

with kindness. And the door

to her apartment is just below mine.

I'll have to face her. I'll have to say

thank you. I'll have to define

what this means. Every day

I pass her in the stairwell,

I'll remember she brought soup.

That she thought I wasn't doing well.

That I couldn't escape her loop

of care. The empty container sits

on my counter. I'm rehearsing

the gratitude. The words that fit

around the wound of her noticing.