Sushi for Two

I want to be the seaweed that rolls you up.

Will you wrap yourself round my clumsy body?

Can you stand those bright sea urchin eggs on me?

Loving you I have to love them too—octopus, cucumber, crab fillet and all. 

Countless rice rolls of the past return to haunt us.

Plain tea or saké? Feels like the choice before a thousand crossroads. 

Reaching for you where you are soft and chewy I hit the hidden spikes.

Claws of the soft-shelled crab—like spider legs—playing for love?

Shedding layers of clothes you stop as if shuddering.

Nearing the coiled core is like touching some pain deeply buried. 

With no idea of how I taste my rawness drives you away.

Your natural pungency, hot and mustardy, hurts me too. 

We fall silent, laid out side by side on the dish, like strangers.

A word or two perhaps but my stomach feels queasy with old grudges. 

When love is no more evening meals are mere consumption of matter.

When home is no more maybe only the soul of clams will give shelter?

From different cities we came, with different winters behind us.

We enjoy each other’s bright hues but what keeps us apart?

I chew slowly digesting your deep sea fibre.

You go still in the noise as I melt on your tongue.

Translated by Martha Cheung. This poem appeared in Foodscape, published by Original Photograph Club, 1997. © Betty YY Ng