Chicken Dumpling Alphabet Soup

Inspired/borrowed by Metastasis by Ja’net Danielo

She can’t remember and maybe that is why I keep rearranging

my living room, thinking about where the floor lamp should go.

My way of living buries me deep into a hole. She can’t remember and this

is what I tell myself when I am frightened into thinking that I am forgetting what a floor lamp is.

Yesterday night I overheard a woman telling a boy to adopt a bunny

and pretend to be one so that the bunny thinks he is also a bunny

and befriends him and makes him one of their own like

the wild ones do with each other in the bushes

of thirteenth street. I want to know, when do bunnies

stop being rabbits?

Four miles from here, where my

grandma who doesn’t know me lives, the old folks paint pictures

And watch movies while forgetting what they ate for breakfast and

play bingo without knowing how to count.

Across the street, the night owl of eateries,

the pine cone open until forever

and ever where I eat chicken dumpling alphabet soup

every weekend because my grandma doesn’t know how to make

it anymore. She can’t remember and the cold noodles

in the warm broth repel each other like oil and water

and while I wait for my soup to settle I draw a picture of what the

noodle-alphabet spells out today and think about

what it’s going to spell out inside my stomach later and I wonder if

this is what my grandma meant when said that you must

not add your noodles in too late before our 67th introduction

where she asks me my name again and we sit in each others company

talking about the weather over and over again.

Pine Cone is a truck stop and Rabbits are the same thing

as bunnies and my alphabet soup says that my floor lamp

should probably go in the corner.


Sofia Cortes is a junior studying Journalism with a Writing Intensive minor. This piece is inspired by Metastasis by Ja’net Danielo.