Here in a seventh floor doctor’s office waiting room I wonder what the hell
is crab stuffed shrimp and how one stuffs a shrimp and how

all these cooking videos can’t beat Mom’s spaghetti which is not really
spaghetti but guà miàn topped with spiced ground pork and

eggs scrambled with tomatoes which Mom and I call xī hóng shì chăo dàn
and my partner calls fān qié chăo dàn and we laugh and I could really use

their smell here in my tiny shared apartment where someone decided to eat
the constituents of a ham and cheese sandwich over the bathtub.

It is the season of letting my guard down, the season of forgetting
to cover my ankles with sunscreen. My friend brings me pears

from H Mart and suddenly I think that every care is the first song
of a concert, that edge of bursting when Jbrekkie sings the body is a blade

and I want to believe her but sometimes I think mine is more
like a butter knife which is meant for cutting through soft things and not this

New York City where the cars are always screaming and the starlings
don’t give a damn, when crying feels like the best

sex ever, when a single word from a stranger makes me fall
into confession and I remember how I love that I live in a world with crab

stuffed shrimp and mom’s spaghetti and pears and pears and pears and pears and pears