How happy to be with a soup belly,
make careful sloshing steps.
To eat all the noodles with chopsticks,
eat beansprouts, flank. Which is delightful,
to eat soup without a spoon, tilting the bowl
up like an offering to the end of manners,
a bipod of your elbows on the table sliding
subtly, little circles, the gift of soup, that
and the need for a new shirt, napkins
to scrub my beard, the steam on my glasses
putting the world away, as if there is
no world I need besides what I’m holding,
and maybe what I’m now carrying inside me
is a big soup baby, oh Mary don’t be jealous,
you know how I feel.
Hugh Behm-Steinberg, CA, USA