Grief Soup
I started this dish
In an oversized pot
Already half full
With the broth of my tears
Immeasurable in content
Full of salt
I reached behind
To grab and pour in
The majestic milk-line
Of ancestral spices
Who called forth
Cups of joy, quarts of pain
A gallon of knowledge
Unlimited wisdom
From deep inner knowing
Rising to the surface
Of my steaming sadness
Others threw in chunks of trauma
Some raw, some processed
Some frozen with fear
Thawing out in these juices
Marinating in prayers
Pressure cooking the sadness
Of mine and others
Melting hearts
Braising with hope
Stir up comfort and peace
And new healing of souls
Though my pot almost full
I couldn’t help but pour in
Tears, tears, tears
And more tears
From wishing Mama
Could hold me again
Let me cry into her bosom
And tell me,
“Baby, this world is hard
But it’s go’n be alright.”
From knowing that
I’d never get to ride
In Daddy’s car with him again
To go to the market, buy fresh fish
Then watch the clerk filet it
Season it and fry it up in a pan
From knowing
I could no longer sit
With Grandmama in the summers
And our too-long-in-between visits
From the West Coast to the East
To make her sweet tea
And scratch her scalp with a comb
From knowing that my children
And my loved ones
And all of my fellow humans
Would too be cooking
Their own pots of grief
That I couldn’t take away nor dispose
I stepped back from the pot
Because the drops from my eyes
Whether from pain or joy
Still tasted the same
Although one was a preservative
My soup was now getting too hot
And too salty
So I dropped in some ice cubes
And cups of sugar
From all the joys
I had experienced
In the midst of life’s pains
With my family, childhood friends
The church and in community
While my grief percolated
I noticed how
Every single time
I thought it was done
Every single time
The contents simmered down
Society threw in raw slabs of pain
Soaked in patriarchy, hate
And white supremacy
That was then overly saturated
By the plethora of media
Those random
Yet regularly thrown in bits
Caused splashes that burned
Injuring my spirit
While stewing my grief
I tried turning the heat down
Already aware
That the light from the fire
Wouldn’t go out
For the huge pot of grief
Is never quite done
To even out the flavors
I reached up high
Standing on my toes
Higher
Grabbing a footstool
Higher
Climbing up
Standing on the highest counter
Of the room with vaulted ceilings
To reach the highest shelf
With my hands
Lifted in praise
I grabbed loaves of love
Packaged with reusable empathy
I compassionately placed
Every crumb into the pot
So now
Let us get our bowls and our spoons
Our injera and cornbread
Sit down at the table
Say our grace, bow our heads
As we take in our grief soup
Together
Copyright © Angela Braxton-Johnson
March 2019 Poetically Inspiring Change, LLC