Soup in Chinatown
what feels like hollow bones, I have yet to find
a cure for. but here, here’s a soup that smells too close
to home. here’s a soup with the warmth of blood,
asking how are you? how are you? this spoon is too
small to drown in, and I’m dreaming of sinking
my head beneath the whole pot. I gulped down
the entire bowl craving more. please, more herbs
this time more dirt to grind my teeth against, to bring
me back to our old garden, to claw my way out
of the dirt, sprouting new skin glazed in sunlight.
split me by the chest and you’ll find an entire house
woven from purple orchids by summer breeze twirling.
but it’s winter here in New York and all the bruised
petals are scattered across this consuming snow. this is
all I have: a letter from home and a shadow forever
chasing across the globe. neon signs across the street
flickering welcome welcome like a thousand fireflies
with mouths for eyes. Ma, I know I can’t leave, but with
each sip I’m drinking up the ocean between us,
a little closer to you, a little closer to home.
By Spencer Chang
Spencer Chang is a writer based in Taipei. He is also a dancer and freelance web designer in his free time.