by Pamela Yuen
Hot pot Ferment a memory: Us, All spittle in the chili. Double dipped chopsticks. There’s an open bottle of soju on a Formica table in March. It’s still cold enough to roll our bodies in thick skins of tofu blankets terraformed to hold our rolling anxious psyches. I dare myself to bend just a little bit more now— backward, more inward. Noodle flex old bones inside shrinking mental real estate. When we emerge in the new world I will unfurl these clenched little fists. Hands uncrumpled like dried ear mushrooms come alive again in hot soup. A languid broken blooming from your salty mouth.
Bio:
Pamela Yuen was born to Hong Kong migrants in rural Ontario. She is an expressive writing facilitator with the Toronto Writers’ Collective and serves as an executive member of Canadian Authors Association—Toronto Branch. Her spoken word can be heard through Brickyard, an audio/visual hub of Brick Books. You can visit her at @peameala.
Brooklin Poetry Society 