Here, I say, is my story:on a plate or in a bowlsoups of fire, budding mountains,red rings of oily kisses,stir-fries of grey morningsunder a concrete highway–the wok song, the flame dance.My eyes follow the brown hands– splash, flick, flip, swirl–a hit of garlic in my nosea puddle in my mouth.Of my brand-new leather school shoesa fist in my belly, a golden sweatrolling down my spine.Of the car exhaust in the airsweet and smoky. Of the heatyellow and thick, collecting on my skin.Of my mother’s cleaver, rappingon the bird’s eye chilliesthe green-grass cruncha splash of coolness.
Here, I am telling youof breakfasts gone by: my fathercutting, scooping, arranginghis plate, his methodology.Of my heartache: how it squeezesand I can’t breathe.Of a hollowness, a deep clanking in my chest.Of moments I wish I’d…
