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Grief Before Grief by Elizabeth Muscari
We could not decide what was worth mourning
and what was worth forgetting– until we filled a pot
with water, and soaked yellow onions and chicken breasts,
blanketing them in lime juice and basil, then charred ginger
and sent it into that bubbling mouth with only salt, and
boiled rice noodles until they lay limp, as thick steam
hovered below our chins and smelled of sour leather,
but somehow it still made our tongues ache,
we discovered pieces of the noodle package floating
between strands of softened herbs and meat. Combing
through bleached noodles, trying to find more slivers
of plastic, you laughed hard enough to make waves
in your soup, denouncing our amateur cooking abilities,
and I wished I could just keep you, just like this, forever.
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