OIL

In an off moment, I remember

Shanghai’s frigid air, steam

shimmered iridescent with cooking oil.

We’d ducked into a small restaurant,

amid its vapors

sipping a big bowl

of chicken-duck-blood soup.

Sweet on the tongue,

but underneath, something bloody.

We raised our heads,

lips glittering.

Now we’ve tasted all the city flavors,

the roadside dust of those days

pressed to shale,

still that bloody taste,

the loud, greasy fat,

uncertain, hurried steps.

Sometimes I want serenity,

a simple bowl of soup,

no ripples,

holding close

all it embraces.

In your hands a tureen,

eggdrop soup with pickle and minced pork,

a little heat lurking in the placid taste,

on its calm surface

two gleams of tinted oil.

Through curtained years,

a shining gaze.