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From Chinatown to Home
The Chinese women lift fat shrimps
stylish between chopsticks
their partners take mouthfuls of rice
each grain a potential lost lamb
on the field-flowered red tablecloth
I wait for something to fall —it doesn’t
Slipping duck and sesame chicken
into orange and plum sauces
it’s all so delicate, a centuries-old ritual
fingers dipping in and out of porcelain,
reminiscent of last night’s sword dance,
heavy blades swinging in the air swishing
dangerous between leaps, slicing too close
to necks, legs, kimono clad
Bodies —flesh colored peppers, bean sprouts,
steaming dim sum, tiny pieces of fish,
sieze and swallow like Chien Tung pick-up sticks
they select and lift, gobble and swallow
—all perfect.
Their voices are too loud —strident even
the room rings with agitated conversation
are they arguing, angry, discussing which party
to vote for, someone’s infidelity perhaps,
recalling a family feud?
We westerners converse in muted tones
grapple with our Chow Mein, wind forks into
spoons like spaghetti, look down ashamed
a blotch of red sweet and sour has stained
our tablecloth, some errant grains of rice,
a stray noodle. Outside trams clang, people
walk by with packages, swift on their business
—no collisions here.
I fumble for money, my glasses, drop my purse
apologize, stumble on the step going out,
wish once again I could understand Chinese,
I take the complimentary chopsticks home,
still wrapped, to languish in the drawer
untouched in their cellophaned silence
—aloof like watchful cats
besides the noisy knives and forks.
© Johnmichael Simon
2006
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