Red-Braised Crossing
The sizzle—pork meets iron
like summer rain on concrete.
Mother throws sugar in hot oil,
watches it bloom umber,
saves it with rice wine
and silence.
Steam carries soy
through our 3rd floor walk-up.
She teaches me to taste
with my eyes closed—
fat melting into surrender,
skin holding its shape
like memory.
I pack nothing.
The recipe lives
in my marrow—
how anise floats
like a small boat
I’ll ride west.
At immigration,
the officer stamps.
I smell caramel on my fingers.
Behind me: Shanghai simmers.
Ahead: a cold pan
waiting for everything
I am about to lose.