I make soup and burn / incense to invite wisdom into my home
This morning our cities speak in steam
and everything and I extend into blossom.
Sepals open for a show of white then pink
and red and red and red.
And yesterday, I bought some dumplings
from a woman who reminded me
so much of my grandmother
I emptied my wallet with a smile.
And there, meager embers woke in me
and too blossomed and red shreds
of luck overtook the streets.
Here, in San Francisco, I make soup and burn
incense to invite wisdom into my home
as each joss stick ashes itself into memory.
I too am like this—always approaching the bottom
of that thin red sliver as the cherry descends—
I, so focused on its absence, diminish my offering.
But in New York, my father opens
an orange and it is good. In New Jersey,
my auntie braids a plait of dough
and we want for nothing.
And this morning, we celebrate
and heat broth, pull every tray from our fridges,
smile to one another, a red red smile,
and take in these gifts of pleasure,
and texture, and heat
and we stir the fat back in.