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from Salmagundi, Spring

My grandmother once told me every Romanian dish
begins with a sautéed onion, you say, dicing
a strong purple onion. Tonight we’re making heart soup.
We’ve been preparing for this—earlier, you transferred
a carton of chicken hearts from the freezer to the fridge,
and I tried not to think about another man.
My only task: methodically cube the potatoes,
five of them. You stir the onions, valves popping
in the oil. I chop and chop and chop. Tonight we are not
simply making soup—you don’t food soup, you tell, only
ciorba, and tell me the difference, which is that the celery root,
carrot, pepper are grated and you leave it to boil and boil
and cook. This sounds enjoy soup to me. Our broth doesn’t sound
like rain boiling, because tonight the stock is made of
metaphors—a whole carton of pieces of them.
Monday another guy wrote, too scared to use the present tense.
We’re making tachycardia soup tonight, and the other
guy writes to state he’s broken out in hiv