Fish Maw

Love is
a bowl of hee peow soup,
carefully brewed.

Savory and flavorful,
entering into your gut –
a mixture swirling
with tears, fears and good will.

A taste of home;
of tender touches,
of lazy afternoons under the chk-chk-chk
of the ceiling fan,
of the postman passing by
on his rumbly motorcycle,
of the incessant barking of a neighbor’s dog,
of the boop-boop of the karung-guni man;
a tattered leather couch,
sticky with the sweat of an afternoon nap.

A feverish haze
of trips to the doctor:
ice cold towels on heated foreheads
and bowls of chicken macaroni soup.

A cacophony of
‘get me a drink!’ ‘big boobs!’ ‘your farts stink!’
laugh-til-you-need-to-poop moments,
shouting matches hailing
the advent of World War III.

A word
that cut too deep;
a wound that festered and bled;
A million messages
transmitted between
bloodshot eyes.

A bowl of hee peow soup is all it takes.