Bay Leaf

I sat in the kitchen where the air felt thin,

and stirred the pot until the steam rose up.

I was looking for a way to let the heat in,

so I poured a heavy measure in a cup.

I burnt the roof of my mouth on the first go,

a sharp, stinging reminder that I’m still here.

The broth was a salty, golden sort of flow,

carrying the weight of the ending year.

Rings of fat shimmered on the surface like oil,

slicks of yellow floating in a ceramic sea.

I watched the carrots and the onions boil,

wondering if this was enough to fix me.

I found the bay leaf at the bottom of the bowl,

tough and dry and never meant to be chewed.

I put it on the napkin, a jagged little soul,

left over from the making of the food.