Stew // Salt

There is a stew.

There is a stew whose flavor changes with each hour is simmers.

There is a stew whose flavor bitters with each hour that it rots.

There is a pot.

There is a pot who I’ve been watching.

There is a pot whose lid I’ve tried to keep affixed.

There is stew erupting from a pot whose lid I’ve tried to keep affixed.

And I can’t find the salt. I can’t find the wound. I can’t find the spoon.