sarah's cooking show

on the television i watch as my younger self
instructs me on how to cook an invisible soup.
she chops onions with 
a flat hand. she minces garlic 
by rolling it in her palms. i had never known
all my childhood was being recorded
& broadcast each week. i had 
an audience then or maybe no one watched
& i danced in the dark quiet 
of the television box. she is a bright girl
wearing a flower print apron. i know
when she is holding a wooden spoon 
by the way she grasps. i make the same gesture 
to hold one as well. the smell of the soup
fills my apartment. it has fresh ginger 
& hints of indistinct spice. 
there are no ingredients to invisible food
so they come out different each time.
this was all supposed to be a poem 
about my mom. she is in the shot too.
she is making real food in the background
of every recording. she is stirring
silver pots on the stove. steam or fog.
heat or oven. the clang of metal
on metal. i used to believe her bones
were made of utensils. i learned my motions
from hers. immitation is often
a form of self-making. so, tonight
i immitate my younger self who is
just mirroring our mother so in a way
i am stil mirroring my mother
to make myself an empty dinner.
the soup has butternut squash &
invisible chicken which is 
vegetarian. the soup has a remote control 
& a pencil & a lock of hair. i was 
so small i had to pull a chair up 
to reach the counter. i look
into the camera. the camera is rolling
like a boil. i have nothing 
in common with my self at six year old,
not even gender. not ever teeth. 
nothing other than maybe
the creases of our hands & our need
to make nothing out of nothing.
somedays i feel like
a poem is delicious wild nothing.
she is finish now, pouring the soup 
for all of us to eat. my mom tastes it
& tells me it's delicious. i taste
my own soup & it is too bitter
or maybe too sweet. all over my house
are mounds of invisible sugar
so you never know when some might
snow into whatever you're making.
i don't have a video player. i don't have
a tv. so the show ends & my little self
marches back under the sink
cradling the tv with her. 
i tell her she should sleep now
for a few years-- that she should become
a soft memory. one of the memories 
that only registers in texture 
& sadness. i am sad about past 
as a whole. all the salt we taste
is from a time we cried. there is only
so much salt for each of us.
i try to save mine so i don't
waste it on the soup. i finish it
even though it is bitter 
& syrupy & really about how 
i love my mom & how loving her
makes me weak with yesterdays
& years & years agos.