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Soup

by Justin Rigamonti

Three old ladies across from me ate soup
and spoke methodically of soup while I
pounded through lines aimed fixedly at death.
In my verse a party of lost hikers were earnestly
considering the consumption of their fourth,
Charles, who was fast becoming a blue
brick. When I looked up for some respite from this,
the lady on the left was gesturing with her
wasp-paper wrist out toward the idea of a
very good goulash. What I wanted to say
about bodies, about Charles’ body, about
what exactly vanished in transit, wasn’t coming.
The lady on the far right tapped her wrinkled
index finger on the tabletop and said, “Soul!
It’s the salt, ladies.” None of us spoke while
sunlight momentarily filled our café corner,
and I could feel them suddenly conscious
of my presence, of what it is that hustles through
these coffee shops, by this body, by my name.

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