an act of love in digestion

the first act of love shared 

between my sister and i 

was the splitting of 

chinese dumplings— 

greasy, satisfying takeout, 

adjacent from each other 

in a restaurant, 

across the dinner table, 

and i don’t think either 

of us knew it. 

the dumplings were thick, 

sometimes soggy, but 

juicy all the same. the bottom

was splotchy brown and crispy,

where it kissed the pan. 

she took the insides, i took the skin.

it was just a hollow shell in my mouth

but that was enough for me, 

and she ate the rest. plucked 

between little fingers beneath

the yellow light above our 

kitchen table. 

and in the years when she 

started to eat the whole dumpling

herself, it felt a little 

like betrayal.