The Soup

On Friday afternoons I cook with my grandparents. Beef Stroganoff in this photo. But sometimes it is baked beans, which make the air in the apartment sweet. Once it was biscuits, grandpa floured my hands while the heat from the oven wrapped around me. And when we make the chocolate cakes, me and grandma lick the batter bowl clean. There are no words for this love.

Except his:

I carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)