Love is a Verb

my first night home, i eat

alone in my favorite ramen place.

in the booth next to me,

there is a curly haired boy wearing 

a sweatshirt that says the name of my best friend’s alma mater,

and his father,

whose eyes are dog-tired behind

small glasses, scuffed

boots and work shirt.

over the sounds of my own slurping

i listen in on the boy asking

stupid questions of the waiter about

size, price. he apologizes

over and over again, asks

his father’s opinion.

when their food arrives,

the boy murmurs happy birthday to the father, asks

him to smile for a picture.

i watch the gulf between them yawn,

the boy’s desperation shivering 

in the dim air.

the father doesn’t.

the camera flashes in the darkness,

fades.

i watch the boy coach his father through

eating pork chashu, their hands fluttering, 

delicate cheeks unused to

such luxury. i watch 

the boy pile onto his own spoon,

rope-bridge his father the

perfect bite. i watch 

his father drop it. noodles spill 

over the table like confessions. i watch 

the boy’s face fall and i watch

his father’s tense and unsure silence and

suddenly the boy smiles and 

goes back to piling meat onto his spoon, constructs

the second perfect bite, an after-rib like

eve and passes 

his father the spoon again and says

happy birthday baba

happy birthday