In hot soup
I never liked mum’s tomato soup.
A sea of red, misplaced from a teacher’s pen,
Served hot on cruel white china.
With every gulp, the chilies stinging sensation
Cheats off the faint smell of cinnamon.
Steam blurs the vision but still the taste of
Pepper’s prominent under the confusion of ingredients.
Desperate for a cup of water.
Still in clothes with a tie and crest,
Your neck rolls down cold sweat
Just as mother’s eyes do as she slices the onion.
Scream. Mother cuts her beating finger and my blood dripped.
My head bows down lower silently.
I find myself swimming in mum’s soup.
