butternut squash 

i'm thinking about
the butternut squash soup
my mom would make after
our last trip to the farm
for the season 

she'd slice the squash
in half

knife to my forehead--

split down the spine
the dictionary torn in two--

i'm holding my 
flat pumpkin-like seeds
& stringy sinews 
in my hands-- 

laid out on
a cookie sheet--
olive oil & a handful
of sea salt from 
the little jar by
the coffee machine 

these were giant
squash--

giraffe necked
contortionists--

i told you that someday 
i would come over
& make you soup

did i tell you 
about the squash or
was i just 
thinking about them?

i imagined you sitting
at your kitchen table  
while i leaned on 
a knife--

forcing it through my
torso-- the squash 
aching as it split--

how did my mother cut
them so evenly?

do you like soup
in march? 

it's still cold enough
to me--

the oven behind
my teeth-- 

on my back gazing
up at a red hot coiled sky--

are you coming in with me?

the squash roasted
at 450 & made the house
smell like winter should--

i know other recipes--

what do you want
me to taste like?

& when the halves were done roasting
she would pull them out 
of the oven with the 
torn & scraggly green hot pads--

pan clattering on the counter

steam spilling from my sliced chest--
ribs like pumpkin seeds--
salt stinging in each gash--

all it takes is a little salt--

with the big metal spoon
she'd scoop the squash hollow--
emptying the skin 
of all it's soft insides 

dropping them into 
the soup pot to
be cooked down--

dull orange earthy--

this is how soft you've
made my body--

was it from sitting on
the radiator 

or from all the times you
kissed my clothing
onto the hard wood floor

let me do it myself
with the big metal spoon--

i'll start at my neck--
vertebrae & tangled blood--
down to my navel--

does your house smell like winter? 

put the soup pot
on the stove--

loving you emptied me
easily-- flesh soft 
& buttery--

there are not always knives 
needed to feel hollow--

again & again

one spoonful--

your tongue burned on
my teeth--

steam pouring into my 
face while my mother

gets out the ladle 

all we were fit into a bowl
handful of salt--

eat--
it's getting cold