soup joumou

Mckendy Fils-Aimé


i confess / i cooked a man / sized pot of pasta,
beef, & veggies—& called it reclamation—
despite my mother's tongue / shriveling like a snail
in the salt / of my english / i wanted to swim

against the current / of white wash / for once
or at least learn how to / summon the dead
i cleaved a kabocha / how i imagine a machete might
a french slave / master's neck / scooped the seeds

out & pureed its body / later, i stirred the contents
into a brown broth / & watched / the yellow swirl
& bubble / like fireworks / entering the sky
of an hour / that leads to a year / yet to be named.