My soup is an ancestor of mine.
This potato’s potassium filled the crumbled bones of the past.
Picked locally by a Mexican migrant worker,
Whose soul has animated a great emperor,
Whose atoms combined with mine, were once part of the same human body.
In the common illusion, we were slaves together.
And we still are.
I scrub a thick layer of soil.
Partly made up of tightly packed soil.
There is nothing that isn’t there.
The manure, the kings, the stars; the beginning, the end.
Nothing is absent.
This soup is everything.
Primordial and eternal.
Even the invisible space created by the spinning penny on the table.
A constant return to the end, that soon becomes the past.
Everything assembles and disassembles.
Until all the veils are lifted.
And then what?
When I feel something it is because I am unaware of the sun.