I make you a poem,
an eggroll
in kitchen Chinee
with the plum sauce,
dragon mustard, sealed inside —
inside, the zap, the wise.
I stuff you a poem
in a pocket–eh?—
like the Lebanee. A pita
for when you’re hungry,
for when you’re full,
whenever.
Wipin’ pen on apron
I sling you hash
with eggs of duck — or mebbe
you like an openface, a chili size?
Green tea, yes? Fortune cookie?
Yeah, sealed-in secrets.
Enough now?
Hey! Mebbe I fix you a gyro
oozing, or a very frank, or —
I know — a pizza.
I hurry it, spicy,
while it bakes, I tell you
for sure,
poems are burritos
outta the microwave
gettin’ hotter as they stand,
pepper-hot, too, Szechuan style.
As you suffer, you may crave more…
— Dawn F. Kawahara, C 2020
