The directives implored upon the can,
Round and smooth and small enough
For my hand, and weak enough to crush.
Perhaps strong enough to stand on its own.
Propped behind the pot I stirred
And paused, waiting for the occasion to drop,
And stirred again (The spoon pulls smooth
Against the weight of the broth
Making a rhythm just right for stirring —
Just right for sleeping).
So I turned away from stirring
To appease my wanting eyes,
Drawing toward the window — my lens
Of blue crystal skies. The sun’s rays
A mystery through glass — their warmth
Unknowable to eyes is felt only
Beyond the closed door of instruction.
The hissing from behind grabbed my fear,
And spun I toward the stove and reached for the spoon
No longer near, now encased with boils
Of careless soup explosions tossed
Over its ordained niche.
No soup was left for me.
Now beneath the eye burning in fumes aloft,
Its goodness to taste in “stir occasionally.”