IN RESPONSE TO MY WHITE MANAGER WHEN SHE SAID I WAS ‘SLURPING MY NOODLES LOUDLY LIKE A LITTLE ASIAN’ by Claudia Yang First a snag. Then it chokes and lodges itself inside my throat. Nose running, glasses fogging, chopsticks mid-wielding. It's these kinds of little deaths that slaughter me whole. Finds the fishbone in the emergency room. The unforgotten hauntings grazing the dust off the walls after all these years. Cheeks flushed, bones crunched, tongue slumped. Her eyes slicing my hiccupped mumble response. So searing with her cruel smile. To mandoline chunks of my hungry self. Fact: it's rendered down in her skull somewhere that all our (insert where-are-you-from? ethnicity) ancestors ate (insert animal). Branded. Swallowed. Undercooked. Maybe I was just a hungry bitch wanting to be left alone. How does one insideout the carcass of meat like that? Pass the carving knife. That bit. No fat. White meat only. What's even worse is when I find flies sticking to unpeeled fruit or when shells are husked off its flesh, desired only for the pearl. Took me forever to forage myself again. Not even the mycelium can commune me out of knots. I keep fishing for a right answer to this undesirable statement. Berated a palate cleanser for mouths. It wasn't until winters later, when I'm nosedived in at the bottom of the bowl, slurping appreciatively, that I realised — maybe she's just never been that hungry for a hot bowl of noodle soup.
First published in Arc Poetry.