near the old bridge in new jersey, the last
chinese restaurant, shutters kicked in, plastic
bags strewn, grease traps and clogged sink
smelling of sesame oil, remains
my father came by on saturdays to order,
number 44, broccoli with beef, braised pork over rice,
reminder to put the forks on the side, an encouragement
in mandarin, a knot stuck in my throat
i pick up the phone, and the words don't flow
like black sugar and honey, they crystallize on
my tongue
please, i'll have the spareribs « qing
wo yao paigu » the silence brimming
when the neighbors speak, english traced
with bengali, spanish, korean, the current subsides
but then it returns, a lifetime of words spilling
too many for my tongue, a spray of syllables
swirling from my lips, preparing tones that stumble
& stretch & crack on my teeth, tearing &
flooding my flesh, piercing & prodding
my cheeks as the accents melt together
& sugar dissolves into bitterness &
a click on the line
the cashier says nothing when i arrive
a rattle of coins, some scratched up pens,
plastic bag exchanged for bills
i return with a linger of sweetness
« xie xie » a taste of the
saccharine sounds
Sharon Lin is in her third year at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. She is the daughter of Chinese immigrants.
MIT ‘21 | twitter @sharontlin | facebook @sharonlinnyc
,