riffed off of Dubrow’s “Bowl, in the Shape of a Bristol Boat”
Soup, in a Spoon for a Dying Mother
She spooned the soup for her, a stew so simple
it made itself overnight in the crockpot,
wafting aromas of onions, garlic, and greens,
its consistency, gumbo and tomato,
canned and seasoned, fresh and frozen from
the grocery store and the garden
which she tended herself. The thickening soup
mushroomed upward, began to boil.
No recipe required, no saucepan or cooktop.
The last taste of her daughter’s cooking or of any
of earth’s provision fed by human hand—
a sip of water, a pill for pain
from nurse or caregiver, a comfort.
She spooned the soup for her, as if to say
You are the daughter, I am the mother.
A brief point of clarity: the consistency is of gumbo? Or gumbo and tomato? Or neither? And watch for confusing pronouns.
Overall, an intruiging concept. I like that you focus on the soup rather than on the actual relationship. In class we seem to be very prone to always asking for more--until every poem becomes weighted with detail and memory. In this case, I think you did a good job of not needing all of that. It isn't important what the mother is dying of, just that she is.
Given that, I still want to know a little more about the soup. In the areas where it gets a little lofty--"or of any of earth's provisions fed by human hand," "No recipe required, no saucepan, no cooktop"--bring in more of the soup. Rather than saying she needs no recipe, say how often the soup has been cooked previously. You start to mention the smell of the soup, but it's all pretty general, very expected. I don't think the draft needs to be off the wall, the understatedness of it is great, but a little more wouldn't hurt.
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