by Meg Pokrass
I stand near the boiling stockpot warming my fingers while the chicken and vegetables melt, the smell making our apartment strong. Canned wind howls from the TV screen in the living room, omitting a cool glow. Marcus loves man against nature shows which are really just a buff looking model dude talking to himself (and his hidden film crew) before lunch which is probably catered sushi. I serve Marcus the fresh broth on a lockable tray, move his legs from couch to the floor, bend my knees to avoid using my back. He drinks soup with a special deep spoon - and though his fingers tremble, they are able to grasp. I sit with him, cheek against his warm shoulder, watching the man trapped between two icy mountain ranges build a fire out of sticks.
Meg Pokrass lives in San Francisco. Her stories and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in Keyhole, Pindeldyboz, SmokeLong Quarterly, Wigleaf, Elimae, FRiGG, Word Riot, DOGZPLOT, 971 Menu, Thieves Jargon, Eclectica, Insolent Rudder, Chanterelle's Notebook, Toasted Cheese, 34th Parallel, Bent Pin Quarterly, The Orange Room, and others. Meg has recently joined the editorial staff of SmokeLong Quarterly. Links to her work (and outrageous writing prompts) can be found here.