sometimes i want to step out of my skin
& sleep forever in that silver pot
as if i were those bones you boil each day
hovering over the kitchen stove
cheeks flushed with early morning
at least then i’ll smell like home
instead of an imitation
garnished with green onions & basil
sans tendon
sans tripe
sans heart
a health-conscious broth sitting pretty
on the plastic tabletops of all the
little saigons and lotus cafes
despite being a refugee’s daughter
i know nothing of hunger
except when i am the mouth
into which you feed your art
to feed, of course, is to give
what cannot be kept
you tell me to open
the same way you say that no man
will marry me if i can’t cook &
suddenly i become an empty bowl
waiting to be filled again