two women, side by side, all hairnet and apron. flour-crusted

fingertips. the older one claws a piece of dough from its mother

with three bony fingers. rolls it between loose palms. does the shimmy,

shimmy shake as if she is making fire with two sticks. the dough

is now ready to become dumpling. the other woman—more nimble,

slips the pocket over the ledge of the table. mashes ground pork

and scallions with a putty knife into a crease. a pinch. a roll. with one

slick flap of her wrist, a tray is filled with sinched soldiers. Hei!

she bellows and a boy scurries in to collect the tray, replace the tray,

and they begin again. steaming hot dumplings land on my table—

perfect little pillows of pork, peppered with chilli, with scallions.

the ginger comes later, spanking the hearth of my tonsils

with garlic and coriander. intentional oil pools around seeds

the colour of coffee and cream. I pierce a dumpling by its pot belly,

ready myself to take a bite of the mona lisa. the older woman

sees me watching her and is not bothered—many white women

have watched her and I want to be different. fold. pinch. roll.

I will be the one who writes a poem about it.