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.