← v18n1, Spring 2019
Poetry · Volume 18, Number 1

Broth

You serve me a bowl of salmon,

garlic, scotch bonnet peppers

and the last of the spinach. You

stewed it down in the new French

saucepan, made a broth of it,

with the transparent threat of salmon

bones, and this is how I cleanse

myself of the dreams that haunt—

the narratives of a lingering anger,

though all you have given to me

is a bowl of broth; while outside,

the leaves turn, then dance toward the city.