Sukiyaki Elegy

Rooms were always larger
with her inside them,
warmth elevating
from the five-foot-one structure
her bones were bundled in,
mugs of tea constantly cradled
in the crooks of her fingers.

The aroma of sukiyaki,
of simmering onions,
cabbage crisp in the pan,
melting under our noses.

With eyes larger than our dinner plates,
we stacked our hot pot meal
to the celling,
used our chopsticks as a ladder,
to climb the struts of beef before us.

Jemma Shaw

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