In the plush billows
of steam that froths off
her plate of Khao Soi (a soft
wreckage of eggplant
and broccoli, potato and tofu)
she sees small children, girls
mostly,
skeletonized at the rate
of a taste bud's recognition.
Another suck of coconut sauce
and noodles flicker at her
lips. A fresh rush
rolls out and dangles beads
of heat dew
on her eyelashes. More girls
seen from above, tiny below
in dirt yards or on grass--
waving hello or goodbye
in the duration between blinks.
Post your chopstick, Lucky Yum,
right here, in our skirmish of noodles.
Give us stiff beanstalk
to clamber up,
onto your
thumb or forefinger. Do so
and we will rend you
the reason for food. Our gift
to you, for setting us free--
the first and last taste of
ingredients that eat
their own ancient, mistaken biology.
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