What I Fed Them

I stood in front of the soup aisle for five minutes.

Minestrone. Tomato bisque. Something labeled "Italian Wedding."

The vegetables on the cans looked fake,

too bright, too uniform,

like they were drawn by someone who'd never seen a carrot.

Your mother-in-law is coming Saturday.

The last time I cooked, she mentioned

her soup takes four hours.

Four hours of something simmering,

something that tastes like time.

I picked up the can. Put it back.

Picked it up again.

If I buy this, your partner wins.

If I buy this, it means I've given up on the idea

that I'm someone who makes things from scratch,

who has time, who has the kind of love

that will spend an afternoon

watching something bubble.

The fluorescent light hummed above me.

A woman reached past to grab tomato.

She probably makes her own stock.

I bought the can.

I'm not even sorry about it.