Plunging into the
winter morning
on streets where
taillights throbbing crimson
and lead-white honks
weave a shroud
that binds
the city they say
has no room
to breathe already
my stomach grumbles
before a stand and I open
the door with loud
characters hushed
by vapor and walk into
a universe
of fat & heat when I see
in drizzles of
flour under dim light
a woman glowing
auburn works hard
to pinch and roll
a dough
now lying flat
on her hand
it snatches a spoonful of filling
then rests lazy
and juicy with pork
all before
the flour settles
I place my order with
the man across
who was probably up since four
and smudges
his sweaty cheeks
rosy in a kerchief
as he turns and chisels
at the bottom of his
sizzling art and adorns it
with a bounty of greens
in a minute or two
he brings me and my neighbor
half a dozen ivory stones
sitting on their golden thrones
all ballooned up
and puff sharp soup
that cuts my tongue
after just one bite
into the rolling tender
next to me the old man
folded in wrinkles
has his creases
ironed as he slurps
his liquid sun
then soon there were
two or three
more people and the stand
is now packed students
without taking off
their bags
stretch their necks
long towards
the pan then in what
seems an instant
starts licking their lips
full glistening
with fat and a man
on his phone with glasses
grown hazy takes them off
as he nibbles
on one of many lips
and latches till its skin
cracks juices
flow down and
down into the
stomach where bygone
scents and tastes
linger faithful
as the common
soul of all strangers
yes I’m growing sentimental goddammit
in Shanghai a city
where the weights
of reality bend
down the necks of its
people so they
look into their guts
for memories
escape pulls of gravity
Stranger Under My Skin 