By James Viggiano
I think we were meant to die there and be
fed like scraps to street dogs.
Everyone dies each night.
Ghost propane flames cook
bone broth three generations old.
I order in their grumbled city dialect.
It’s important to know this: when
my grandmother was still alive
I’d write to her like a boy
from the war.
I always saw her in her kitchen
leaning on a stool frying an egg.
She could eat without her teeth.
The other way I see her is within a cold
northeast wind blowing the breath from her
lungs. She held a kerchief over her mouth,
her oldest son and husband held her under
their arms tacking into the wind to see
her last daughter finally marry.
I think I confused obscurity with dying.
The lamb meat comes grizzling and red
before I finish my cigarette
when the men across a table
talk in Putonghua and watch
my eyes to ask where I’m from.
It’s important to know: when
I was back home, I sat in rooms
full of people and understood
conversation less than
here and now.
The last I heard of the sun-kissed waitress
was she was having a girl. I dreamt
of her asking me not to leave from a car
back seat many times. We are all
traps for each other.
James will complete his Master’s Thesis in Summer ‘23 as he takes a break from teaching 8th
grade English at an urban Alabama middle school. His work can be found in The Sandhill
Review, Hole in the Head Review, and MidLvlMag, where he serves as poetry editor. He
lives with his wife and dog, rides a motorcycle, and tries to grow vegetables.
Hot Pot Magazine 