Third Time, The Onions

Three months since anyone cooked for me

in any reliable way.

I found a paperback I'd owned for years—

lentil soup—and said okay.

Burned the onions twice.

First time badly. Second, less.

Third time right enough to eat.

I ate the whole pot. I confess

I cried once, second day—

twenty minutes, nothing bad.

Felt okay by morning.

Not fixed. Not as sad

as the day before.

The book is still on the backsplash, pages spread,

spine cracked for the first time.

I keep looking at it. I've said

nothing out loud about what it means.

Maybe it's enough.

Maybe it means something.

Maybe both.