Sunday Mornings

Late morning mother made me hold the rooster’s legs as she hunched over holding the wings a horizontal slash across the neck   The blood poured into a round ceramic bowl muscles twitched in death my hands struggle for life   It was a necessity for the ceremony father would perform later for grandmother sick... Continue Reading →

Elegy on an Asian American Wok

Have the chef bring me something not on the menu. I tire of General Tso's or Tao's or Tsao's chicken; why cubed white meat, when I like sinew? I don't want my sauces blander, thicker nor sweeter. I want the Szechuan chicken (no carrots nor bell peppers) and extra white rice. No, no. I'm not... Continue Reading →

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