Pale teal, with a hint of astringency


Waiting for a dazzling chance encounter
As I press into you
Kitchen smoke rises, curling and lingering
A thousand million grains of ginger
Brush cumin along the bottom of the bowl—an effortless flair like the Northeast
Let this be my foreshadowing for meeting you
Field-green
Waiting to be smoke-cured
And I’m waiting for you
Lifted back up
The shrimp head blooms, unfurling into a haze
Like a shrimp-ball skewer—beautiful on its own, timeless and passed down
Your eyes carry hunger
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