Talking to you is like
eating a bowl of matzo ball soup—
not the kind where one huge dumpling
wobbles in the bowl as if it’s a cruise ship
stuck in a tiny port,
its soft sides easily
scooped until nothing is left but
that tiny drop of chicken broth;

The matzo balls I’m thinking of
are firm,
kind of chewy in the middle,
if you’re lucky enough to get to it
unless you snap the whole thing with your spoon
and it jumps over the rim
and rolls across the table top.

You’re like that:
Hard to cut into with the edge of a spoon—
to be approached cautiously,
taking small nips,
letting the carrot and celery slices
bob to the side
so you can be attacked alone.