by Nicholas Wong
My existence elevates a bit between buckwheat
noodles and squids. Despite this,
I can’t rift the conveyor belt, my cosmos
of rejection. I’m over-gendered,
I’m female moons set in too much
motion, unfertilized kings-would-be
stuck in a sticky rice throne, in which
there’s craft. A fist of rice
gripped, finger-pressed by the chef,
so if you eat me, I won’t fall apart like your night.
What’s wrong with your night?
Don’t pick the lukewarm sake, which tastes less
seasonal than promotional.
You sit yourself at the far end, alone
as a green tea bag. I gaze at you
every 4.17 minutes but your distracted
by my inconvenience of being
round, my groans of being walled by seaweeds.
Tell me there’s a connection, a possibility
of choice, even if it’s replaceable.
Kids have called me marbles,
but my high-order thinking warns me
I’m not. Meaning gets altered
by context at times. The way I’m orphaned
by a knife gnashing my mother’s belly.
The way soya sauce spills on your wrist
to varnish the cuts that eat you otherwise.