Canned Soup

Tonight my memory is a can of soup
Store bought cracked open straight to the stovetop
I only ever remember things as being too cold or scalding
What’s worse than a burn to your tongue?
July seemed like the wrong time of year for that type of wound
Every month before and after felt like a July
It’s all we could see in either direction but
Maybe it was just me
Stirring the pot, testing the taste and temperature
I didn’t mean to lose track of time
I remember the smell of liquid to pan
And that unforgivable layer, the one that grips on long after the meal has come and gone
I turned the tv on to cut the silence into pieces
The kitchen had become too quiet for a person
I stood over the sink and ran the water to the nightly news waiting for the month to move
Soaking everything I could to push all bits of us down the drain again