These are the last slices of nian gao
I scrimped from last month’s
Chinese New Year.
The last time I cut
them into pizza shapes like we used to
in the kitchen. My egg-basted hands a skipper
next to your atlas moth palm.
The last I will let the glutinous paste stick
between my teeth, pretending I love
its sweet monotony, but it’s only childhood
nostalgia hollering.
The last bai bai to a red box
gold hanzi floating
in limbo, as parsed moments do
in my electronic diaries.
This is the last that sight gives way
to water, mouth chewing hard
but delicate things:
life frozen in an urn;
the heart living on
with familiar comforts & breaking
resolutions like this
is the last.
This was first published on Porch LitMag on June 6, 2024.
