Break Up Poem

When you slice the ends off an onion,

sever the ends quick so they can’t

make you cry. Do not toss

away the peel. Do not relinquish

the muddy roots

of the leeks or scallions.

Soak them in water

till they give up their dirt.

Slide into plastic to freeze until you need it,

adding the feet of mushroom carefully brushed,

the celery flimsy like weak knees.

Add bouillon or garlic or bones.

When you get sick from absence

or ache, throw these ends into the largest

pot you own. Borrow one

if you have to. Fill with tap water to the top.

Boil for as long as you can stand

the smell of your mother in the kitchen.

Eat too fast so it burns

your tongue. Trust

this is not the last time

you’ll be able to feed yourself.