Skimming the Soup (2026)

I had made the soup too quickly

for a random date I had over

for seder who balked at

salty parsley. And it is

not well skimmed.

My legs are

two wavy

lines after the

first cigarette of

the day.

I run the sifter

over the top

of the soup

I am giving

my mom

Natalie:

not my

biological

mother,

but since

1999

she has

assumed

the role.

If I do not

have this

soup clear

by 9am, I

will be late

to knock

on doors

for the DSA.

The yellow

fat stares at

me, remini

-scent

of the greasy

pockets

in the

animals I

dissected

in college

Biology.

Sans

formal-

dehyde.

I feel

now as

if I were

in a

lab.