Wasabi is a pulsar to the gum. My tongue is poof. Only seconds & the star blinks out, the heat is gone, one tear rolls down & I swallow it. The sun again is bright & I reach for my glass.
Some weeks I have sushi outside & the sky & the ginger are good news headlines: blank blue, blank yellow! I sit comfortable. I sit without my family. I sit in wingtips & a wool tie. I text my parents & ask about my sister.
A painter of 'late abstraction' moved through their studio & set a recent series out for me. There were six squares eleven-layered with black & white acrylic, silverpoint, & a content perturbing. The arms were long & steady when placing each piece.
I am trying to eat & theory. Sushi as the discrete brush of the chopstick—the end is a known. It is about pairs, it is about balance, it is about the nori ring & my fingers. Each piece is a planet with moons of soy, ginger, was—
My iPhone is on the table close to the rolls. If you do not text me that you are hurting yourself while I am enjoying my sushi, is the sushi still a piece of joy? If you have not hurt yourself in years but still have not told me.
The painter then placed new paintings in front of the old ones. The hands moved gingerly so that the new squares absorbed the layers from the old. I receive a photo on my phone of my sister. She is radiant. She is smiling for the first time in years.