To the people, food is the sky
— Ban Gu, Eastern Han Dynasty, The Book of Han
Our sky was limited when I was young, quota stamps for grain,
for cooking oil, for meat, eggs, cloth, for a bicycle. I couldn’t
wait for my birthday to get a ten-cent ice cream bar,
instead of a five-cent popsicle.
I remember the first-time Father was mad at me because I dropped
a few grains of rice into the crack of the table and refused to eat
them. He pushed me against the table. One tooth broken.
Our appetites were insatiable but compensated with everything
fresh from farms, ripe, untainted—tomatoes, Napa cabbages,
daikons…Nothing was or has been tastier than the memories
of free-range chicken—Father got the head; Mother, wings;
me, the feet, chewy, long-lasting.
We hosted a few parties with food. Our neighbor said, It’s not about
food but friendship. Each time we invited her, she took heartburn
medicine just before eating our homemade dumplings. I’ll
make a monument for the one who invented dumplings, she said.
My Popo ate a bowl of chicken soup right before leaving
for heaven, so she would not be a Starving Ghost,
her children & grandchildren would not be hungry in life.
The sky has expanded to a bounty of offerings. Today, my desire
is limited by my body’s need.I must measure every meal—
cupping rice, veggie, & fruit, finger-sizing protein. My eyes
often aim for more, just my eyes.
Sometimes I still wake up when it’s my turn to take dream meals,
how my heart still can’t break free from the sky.