Amano

on two things I've written. They're kinda different and was debating whether to do two separate posts, but decided not to in the end. I'd like to hear any opinions, suggestions, anything you liked, anything you didn't like.... Thanks in advance.

Here they are, both untitled. First one's a poem:

#1

I dress myself for a
night out in
the city, but

I can feel only the smile
of being
second to him. She walks

beside me tonight, but
I do not know
if these arms that hold

this body can protect
it from heartbreak
and pain.


_______
Second one's a short story:
#2

Many small plates with personal sized portions of food sat in front of Adam Fong at the Eastern Harbor Chinese Seafood Restaurant on 37th street. Any other person would have considered this array of dishes to be a feast of the finest mediocre food Los Angeles Chinatown had to offer.

Cha siu, barbequed pork. The meat of his meal, the soul of his life. Unlike others who ordered pork out of obligation of having a complete and healthy meal, Fong genuinely loved the meat. When he ate it, he would take a guilty pleasure in sucking the sweet flavor of the pork, feeling the rough texture on his tongue. This simple dish was one of Fong’s favorites.

Gai lan, Chinese broccoli with oyster sauce. The last time he ordered the dish, it was overcooked and too soft. Not enough form, like his son, who was flunking out of school, getting into drugs, doing the things that all fathers discipline their sons not to do.

Fong looked across the table to the various plates, and then down to his untouched bowl of rice. The staple of Asian cuisine. Each bowl would start out flavorless and identical. As each piece of chicken, vegetable, shrimp, or tofu would make its way from the serving plate to Fong’s mouth, it would first pass over the bowl to allow excess sauce drip onto the rice, creating a mixture of tastes on the rice as the meal progressed. But in the end, rice was rice. It was loyal and relentless. No matter what you else you ate with it, rice would always find a place on the table during meals. Stable and certain, like brothers are supposed to be.

But Fong wasn’t here to enjoy the pleasant meal. He was here to be taught a lesson, and the two men with him were to make sure he would properly learn not to disrespect Dai Loh ever again. They hated the job, but it was what kept their loud children and ugly wives fed.

At 2:35pm, Fong gave up hope and made his decision. As he reached for the furthest plate on the right with his chopsticks, the two men acknowledged Fong’s choice with the slightest turn of their heads away from the table. The men knew what they would be doing that evening.

Fong shed a single tear as he bit into the red meat, consoled only by the thought that at least he would see his lovely wife again in heaven.