I can’t sit at the dining table
& listen to the morning swarm
of words buzzing around my hair
hovering not entering my ears
(this tablecloth of hardened rice
& wide-angled magenta lotus flowers).
To come home is to steam tradition
& I admit love is a dry chunk of it.
But my patience does not endure.
The turkey in the oven has been
dressed with salt & oil since 3 A.M.
Soon we will eat our wounds.
(originally published in Pandemonium Journal, Spring 2021)