It started with a slurp, just one polite,
a whisper in the broth, soft but bright.
“Hello there,” it said with a sage-slick grin,
“Swallow deep, and let me in.”
I stared at the bowl–thick, red, and wide,
it bubbled like something half alive.
The noodles spelled words I didn’t write,
and the carrots blinked under candlelight.
There’s voices in the soup, I swear it true,
they hum my name in vegetable stew.
Every gulp a curse, every sip a sin,
and the broth begs me to let it in.
I asked the cook, she just looked pale,
said, “It talks to me too when the lights fail.”
Now she stirs with a tremble and a prayer,
to keep the peas from forming a stare.
The crackers laughed when I dipped them down,
and the ladle spoke in a British frown.
Said, “The more you eat, the less you’ll be,
until the soup starts drinking thee.”
Last night the bowl grew limbs and teeth,
crawled to bed and cried beneath.
It said, “You’re next, just add some salt–
and we’ll blame your death on your own fault.”
Now I dine with a spoon and a side of fear,
while the soup recites my yesteryear.
And if you ask, “Is this all in your head?”
I’ll laugh and say, “Not since the bread.”