Soup

— Vaneeza Sohail

When the knuckles of heat
ceased their tapping on all our windows,
we reconvened – a choir of sunlight
at the kitchen table. The morning was
pool-blue and ripe with some kind
of catharsis. We spoke briefly, of gods
and poetry and how the oranges this
season tasted like nostalgia, like those
old winters when our youth was
abundant and infused into everything.
Mostly, we took it all in: the gratitude
for the day, the warmth of each other’s
company. And the soup, warm and
vibrant like a place of refuge.


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