Truth Soup

I used to be the type who 

would never betray the truth by speaking it

now truth soup keeps pouring out of me

Last night standing over my mother’s soup pot 

I remembered again 

that I don’t have to punish myself 

for feeling sad

And some quiet voice of knowing visited 

a whispered warmth 

that I would awaken this morning 

on the surface of the earth again 



poured back into this body 

(like the opposite of knowing I’m going to wake up hungover)

It probably helped to name a few things 

that hadn’t been named in a while 

Named by breath, named by words 

named by following the tight river of pain down the right arm out this estuary of fingertips

Remembering the last time we remembered this

Named by violent storm clouds

undulating against euphoria 

recasting the spiral 



Getting caught and uncaught 

hooked and unhooked 

over and over again 

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