sometimes I worry that I haven't written down a single recipe for my daughters to remember me by. Maybe I'm partially to blame, because I'm the type who likes to cook from memory or from the moment's necessity—tweaking the measure of vinegar to soy, garlic and bay leaf to peppercorn, fish sauce to coconut milk. In his youth, during the war, my father said they'd walk the paddies after dark, looking for snails and frogs; for what called or moved or startled against their feet in shallow water. One body for another, to boil for sustenance and pick clean until the smallest bone, until the shells are nothing but dark coils of moonlight. Echo of what once was saved, currencies no one would even think to steal.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
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