half

By: Bonnee (16) - USA

and the dough that kneads its way through my mind

the soft beats on the wooden cutting

board that makes even repetition reminiscent of

the elastic stretch of thoughts and the table

cover. i open my eyes and you are always there,

waiting for the flour as it rises with the sun.

diced into small wraps, constrained into flour

by the wrinkled, worn out hands that are somehow

everpresent in my life. the steady mix of chopsticks intertwined

with murmurs of scallion and ginger, tender beef filling the dough

folding halves never destined to become wholes, unlearning to flinch

when the mixture overflows. i sometimes wonder how you

go about your day as you tell stories never meant for ears. Steaming the bright white dumplings that bubble tales of what love could have been.

hiding the droplets on your face with your palm, the water boils in anticipation: the byproduct of yesterday and tomorrow. grandma,

i think your dumplings tell me stories,

but maybe i was never the one destined to hear them.

jilted by the sound of pot against pan, brashness never quite sounding like family,

i never speak more than half of what i say for fear of

knives against cutting boards, splintered wood and the letter i wrote at twelve years old: i wish i was never born.

learned to lie, clutched distance as shield, as i placed the wooden chopsticks that

beckoned the rules of the table, now the court for a

match fought with worn eyes and stolen words. as the steam rises without fail, 姥姥 [grandma], i wonder if your dumplings can teach me how to love.