Adding Green Onions
in the kitchen, the pot simmers,
tension bubbling in my chest,
noodles softening, absorbing warmth,
I reach for green onions—
their vibrance a sharp burst
against the pale strands, like
black polish on pale pink nails
chop, chop, chop—
each slice echoes the sting of silence,
my knife cutting bitterly through the stem,
where my heart wrestles with the weight
of a legacy steeped in expectation,
and a flavor they refuse to embrace
I mix them in, a splash of color,
the scent rising, a reminder
of my grandmother’s hands, deftly
folding jiaozi, weaving her life
between layers of dough, but in my mother’s eyes,
these onions are just distractions,
not the essence that makes the dish whole
“Why can’t you be normal?”
her words, as rough as overcooked rice,
a weight pressing down the lid of my pot
crushing my spirit under the guise of care,
where every smile feels rehearsed,
and my dishes feel bland to taste
yet I add the green onions,
their tangy scent spiraling up in steam,
a testament to all I am—
a blend of flavors, a multitude of tastes,
roots steeped in soil, reaching for sunlight,
a dish that brims with the unapologetic richness of both
though the table feels empty, with me alone
the air thick with unspoken words,
I savor this bowl, finding comfort
in the crunch, the truth that breaks in
like shoots in the heart of winter
