The pot simmers long after evening.
I stir it clockwise, as taught,
watching the swirl:
onions, ginger, bone
a faint shimmer of something lost.
No one speaks of the accident.
Only that I leaned too far once,
or perhaps I meant to
that some recipes require sacrifice.
Now, I ladle silence into bowls.
The steam fogs the windows,
but never clears the room.
At dinner, I chew carefully.
For some things should not
be bitten: gristle, memory,
a name salted too many times.
A voice rises somewhere between sips,
not loud. Just enough
to remind me
that broth is a kind of burial.
I do not cry.
The soup is warm.
It fills what it can.
ALDEN ARSÈN is the author of the essay “Walay Bayot Sa Langit,” self-published in January 2025. He lives for Nala, Deib, Luci, and Sally.
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