The question is meant to spark an interesting conversation. Bald and graying retirees coming in to eat their three-course turkey dinners wonder about the story behind the face of the one who is serving them. Gravy on the side and cranberry sauce in ramekins. I like the word “ramekin.” Stacking plates, scraping them. The sound of cutlery plunking into the bus tub. “Cutlery” sounds more refined than “utensil.” The lies they think I tell: I am from Vermont / I am from the sea / I grew up here / I am from the stars / I am from Korea / I am not from Korea. / I am, I am, I.
red sticky fingers
plunge inside to turn and tug
“womb” a kind of cave
Leave a Reply