Broth

I want to make soup,
rip the heart from some golden calf
toss its meat fat
into bubbling tomato juice
see it boil, red,
like the blood of a falling sun.
I want to make soup
with the crucifix
of the heart of the art
I choke on,
in a place where
undeserved and unserved
I eat corn, green beans – truly rare
and sacred. Part of
the bounty the earth tossed me.
It’s time to make soup.