Still There

Eleven days. The soup is still in there.

I reach past it for the milk—twice this morning—

the lid gone domed with pressure, a small prayer

going wrong, the broth a gray-brown warning

at the edges where it meets the plastic.

I made it the night before she canceled.

The pot still smelled good. Something drastic

about throwing it out felt wrong. I handled

the situation by not handling it.

By reaching past. By not quite looking.

There's a version of this where I admit

I'm not afraid of the soup. I'm booking

space for something else. The soup is fine.

I know that. Eleven days. It's mine.