Chinatown, London

after Allen Ginsberg

When I go to Chinatown, I get matcha ice cream and never get mistaken.
The motherly owner speaks my mother tongue with an accent.
All-you-can-eat places serve frozen spring rolls, and I
pay for overpriced egg waffles. They come with sprinkles.
No pudding in the shape of koi, in a pool of condensed milk.

On the train to York I give the table a wipe, opening
the ice-cold sushi box and the wasabi sachet,
made in China. I break the chopsticks apart to pick up
a mouthful of jasmine rice mixed with salmon flakes.
I taste the sashimi and pickled ginger from home.



That Night

In a wool overcoat, you walked me to the house
through the brick arch, where ivy leaves hung
like the tartan scarf around your neck.
...