My dad makes his leek and potato soup the same way he makes his arguments:
boiling hot and intolerable, nauseating, sour.
He makes it burn the roof of my mouth, leave my chest scalding with every sizzle, every drop, every taste.
I look for that same sourness in every meal I eat.
I search for the lime that could’ve been squeezed in,
for soft, collapsing chunks of leek caught between my teeth,
for anything that stings enough to feel familiar.
I turn over spoonfuls,
watch the surface closely for something rising
:a slick of oil, a bitterness,
some small violence i can recognise.
Sometimes, I convince myself it’s there:
in the sharp edge of vinegar, in broth that’s just a little too hot,
in something left bubbling on the hob.
I keep tasting,as if i’ve misplaced it and it might still be found.
From time to time i crave its pungent smell;I yearn to wait for my taste buds to heal again,
to sit upright, teeth gritted at the dinner table.
The burning feeling is something I can’t replicate:
it’s homely and frightening, lonely and warm.
My dad’s leek and potato soup sits at the bottom of my stomach,
sloshing back and forth,
only revealing itself,
ever,
in burps of arguments.
Mar 22
Mar 22, 2026 at 3:04 PM UTC
My dad makes his leek and potato soup the same way he makes his arguments:
boiling hot and intolerable, nauseating, sour.
He makes it burn the roof of my mouth, leave my chest scalding with every sizzle, every drop, every taste.
I look for that same sourness in every meal I eat.
I search for the lime that could’ve been squeezed in,
for soft, collapsing chunks of leek caught between my teeth,
for anything that stings enough to feel familiar.
I turn over spoonfuls,
watch the surface closely for something rising
:a slick of oil, a bitterness,
some small violence i can recognise.
Sometimes, I convince myself it’s there:
in the sharp edge of vinegar, in broth that’s just a little too hot,
in something left bubbling on the hob.
I keep tasting,as if i’ve misplaced it and it might still be found.
From time to time i crave its pungent smell;I yearn to wait for my taste buds to heal again,
to sit upright, teeth gritted at the dinner table.
The burning feeling is something I can’t replicate:
it’s homely and frightening, lonely and warm.
My dad’s leek and potato soup sits at the bottom of my stomach,
sloshing back and forth,
only revealing itself,
ever,
in burps of arguments.
finally reworked this poem
