It’s impossible to act like a princess
when you’re eating ramen.
I pull apart these stubborn chopsticks,
and watch the wood splinter,
like lovers scorned they leap apart
and drown in an oil-soaked, soupy bath
where mushrooms bob up and down
like caramel apples and
bamboo shoots cling to beansprouts
for dear life.
My lips are smothered in broth
napkin smudge-ridden, turning from white to brown
I slurp back sinewy noodles
knotted and silky, drenched in stew
and feel the sauce ooze down my chin.
Teeth no doubt stained
face no doubt smudged
mouth no doubt dyed with soy sauce.