Cold Chinese Food
A poem on grief, realization, and the pain of a forgotten childhood.
By E.B. Johnson Published 4 years ago • 1 min read
everyone grimaces when i say
to them that i like to eat my
Chinese cold.
how could you do it? they ask,
their faces in horror. i say,
it is inheritance.
my mother taught me to do
it. a quick treat if you can’t
leave the couch
for your grief and rage. it
took a lifetime of sad faces,
blank stares for
me to realize that they aren’t
horrified by the icy food.
they’re saddened
by the little girl who could
not rely on her mother
for a hot meal.
© e.b. johnson 2023
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E.B. Johnson
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