If there is a rite of soup, and there is,
she is the pope – the righteous advocate
of broth and flavor – I watch her
raven tresses, bold as her assertion
that tastes are best when mixed, then
as the dancing of a smiled prayer becomes
good bye and yes this $3.69 is the tithe
that hangs the soul upon the door of hope.

On some other day when the Mass is not ended
in silence, I see her acolyte – ladle in hand
pushing down toward communion
with the warm hymn of chowder.

“Ah,” I say, “she has taught you well,”
and we laugh. Because this is the truth
of soup and friendship. Sip it up, f
slow but with great gusto. The pope,
she is infallible. We both nod,
even if the chowder is $5.30.