The call ends I'm in the kitchen — I didn't walk there I just arrived

The call ends. I'm in the kitchen — I didn't walk there, I just arrived.

My mother's voice still running its loop. The way I've always survived

that call: not well. I find a can of tomato soup. The opener breaks.

I use the back of a butter knife to pry it open. Whatever it takes.

The soup heats up. I eat it standing at the sink, too fast, too hot.

Burn the roof of my mouth. Don't stop. Turn off the burner. The spot

of red on the rim of the pot. The bent tin lid. The spent

quiet of a midnight kitchen. The call that went

nowhere, same as always. I rinse the pot. The overhead light.

The chair at the table, pulled out from some earlier part of the night.

The can stays out. I go to bed instead.

I'll deal with it in the morning, I said

to no one. The light off. The chair still pulled.

The kitchen holding everything it's been told.