Chopsticks
Two wooden roses
brought gingerly to the lips.
There is nobody dancing
tonight, no dress as hot
red as kimchi—only the swirling steam
of rice mingling with the breath
from my mouth, covering
my eyes like your hands.
Each time, this dream evaporates
in the same motion:
chopsticks scraping against porcelain,
every warm grain swallowed.
For the next meal, I rinse the pair
at the sink—I water the roses.