What the Broth Knew

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

I held the bowl in my hands like I used to hold my brother’s face
after he fell from the mango tree—warm, wet,
something inside rattling.
The broth was still trembling
from the walk home, covered in plastic,
the plastic bag sweating through its sides,
leaving a circle of oil on my notebook.

I peeled it open—no ceremony,
just the smell of boiled bones rising
like the scent from under my Lola’s arms
when she used to carry me,
after she had spent all morning
slaughtering chickens, her palms
still red with the memory of feathers.

The liver slid to the side, dark and damp
like the inner cheek of someone
who’s bitten their tongue.
The bone marrow, fat-rich,
clung to the hollow
like breath in a paper bag.
I had to suck it out—
loud, indecent, the way I once cried
into a stranger’s shoulder
on a bus to Jaro
the day after my father left
and didn’t call.

There was no garnish—
just the broth, salted
like a wrist licked clean.
The noodles were soft,
the kind that give up first,
folding into themselves
like my cousin, curled in the back room
after her first heartbreak.

I crushed the chicharon
with my fist,
watched the dust settle
into the soup like the ashes
of someone I wasn’t ready to bury.
The oil stuck to my skin.
I licked it off.
It tasted like old cabinets
and sun-warmed linoleum floors.

I didn’t pray. I didn’t speak.
I ate. I took everything the bowl gave me,
even the parts that made me gag.
The texture of spleen,
the way the cartilage cracked—
how memory lived
in the gristle.

Outside, the neighbors were lighting fireworks
for someone’s birthday.
Inside, my mouth was full
of heat and longing.
My tongue burned
but I didn’t stop.

This is how I learn to keep going:
not with strength,
but with spoonfuls.
With breath sucked
through lips slick with fat.
With the taste of blood
and soy and ghosts.

I finished it alone,
the broth cooling
in the crook of my body.

And when I stood,
my belly was warm,
but my hands—
they were still shaking.