a pot of fish soup slumps
over tablecloth, broth
bubbling over
lit candle.
grandmother always said
to eat the eyes first—poke
the head and locate
its socket, push
down in a
wedge, and
gingerly cross your
chopsticks to
lift and suck.
savor gelatinous
glass, and let
umami burst like
sugared pop rocks
to enhance your
eyesight.
then, ladle out the
rest of the
soup and with
the flick of a
wrist, twist the
rotating tabletop. Pick
out crystal scales
(pray your
limp tongue can
tango with splinters—
hope the bones
don't slip and cleave
filmy trachea)
and scrape clean
the fish meat until
skeleton glows translucent.
of course, after you finish
the last grain of rice,
drop a wrinkled wad of
bills and remember to crack
open your fortune
as you leave.