I never thought I’d attempt to make corn chowder 
and that too in a crock-pot of all things, 
perhaps the world ends here, 
while chopping onion,  
cubing potatoes and feeling constrained by rules  
set by the norms of society; 
if only it was the other way around,  
I’d get so much done, but that’s a story 
for another time.

I gather fresh thyme, bay leaf and evaporated 
milk as the hours slip away  
and dance,  
I prefer putting some music on 
when I am in the kitchen, lest I die of boredom, 
it is a labor of love, making soup,  
I turn the crock-pot on and add chicken broth, 
just a few hours more, I tell myself  
and it will be ready to serve. 

I allow my thoughts to wander and travel to 
a night out in Seychelles,  
clear blue waters and roasted breadfruit 
beckon me to come and join, 
I feel as though all the walls have fallen. 
The thick outer skin of the fruit protects  
the starchy interior, when it’s sufficiently roasted,  
you can break it apart with your hands, 
dark promises, 
unspoken in their offer, but oh, how I long  
to indulge– he is grey gardens,
a compass of moments that may or may not belong.

The timer comes to a halt and ushers me  
back to the present; 
I pout, for constraints are loudest  
when one is uninhibited, 
I pour the corn chowder into a bowl and admire  
the greens that accentuate the yellow.
I don’t have regrets, but I would want to live  
a fuller life, where twilight softly burns.
But something was amiss, and then it occured

to me, a splutter of oaths as one hand flies
to my mouth,
“damn, forgot to add pepper and salt!”
I guess some things never change.





Photo credits: Lauren Coleman Photography, Pinterest. 

Posted for Poetics: Time for Soup! @dVerse Poets Pub