Unfamiliar Soup

She was out kicking cans in the particular morning that I left her

Tickle my armpits she said and we’ll listen for the voices we know
If there’s none we’ll just laugh from the old tickling and
then keep our hands to ourselves
I knew then that I could always hear my mother talks
hair, or head, or one, or both of those a beehive
did you forget the beehive?
it’s just talking and some touching,
mostly its tickling

On that particular morning I was
what the other Edies I know
call
“stock still”
they call it that because your arms are a soup
and there’s too much celery base
in your legs and hands
and it's not the soups you know
that cradle, or rock you in the end
it’s warm air slipping out of the back building
which I know is halfway between my house and here
that loops up my skirt
and skirts my armpits
and I know it will bend me back to
a sleeping surface

She said to listen for voices we know
even when we’re alone
even when you write several mispelled words
and stow them under your skirt
which was all the wrong attire for the occasion
that brought you between here and your sleeping surface

creatures with thoughtless words
have been whispering up the grains of my neck
they’re congratluating me
for the game well played
they’re saying I’ve finally outclassed the masters
with my unspoken thoughts which really, in the end
revealed themselves to be
fists beating on thick wood tables.
A table set for
unfamiliar soup.