Joy Tong
my sister sent me a video about wontons at 11 pm
then she slipped into sleep.
but i watched twelve minutes
of a man cupping rotund mince toddlers
swaddling it in skin, telling
his unseen voyeurs lessons
about patience
(his hands pleat flour and water)
and diligence
(steamy broth and scallion)
every immigrant
hope or virtue or plea
in resonant Mandarin
and black-backed English captions
i spent twelve minutes wondering whether
to read or listen,
let my dreams sing in a language
that doesn’t match my face
and a little piece of heritage, each day,
bids me goodbye, tucks into itself
(if i say a word like diaspora enough times
does it mean i understand its ringing syllables?)
now slotted legs on the sofa, careful
like the feeling of carrying too many plates
(tangzhong milk bread, focaccia, mooncake
earl grey, pearl dalgona)
perfect precarious verge
she continues to breathe, rhythmic
through the same button-nose as mine.
we could reach through
each other’s mirrors, grasp genetics
untwine phosphate
and find the neurons
that cannot identify home.
then take a seat in our little crook of the world
and we watch videos about wontons
and we wait.
Joy Tong, a proud Kiwi-Asian, calls Auckland her home. When not writing or looking for the next big adventure, you can find her trying to pat the neighbour’s cat.