Rice

Word to the wise: don’t be like me. Don’t get all four wisdom teeth taken out at once. Just don’t do it. Not only did I look like a hamster for three days after surgery, but opening my mouth more than three centimeters was torture, though it might also be because I wasn’t prescribed any painkillers. I knew I could only eat soft foods, nothing that required chewing, but I didn’t realize how much even trying to eat some soup would hurt.

The worst part about wisdom teeth removal is that I can no longer eat rice, not for a few more days anyway (this may not sound so bad but please understand how difficult this is for a Dominican such as myself). To get through these tough times and make use of this situation, I figured I might as well be fake deep and write a poem.

A pudgy fistful travels

from blue bowl

to pink mouth,

grains sticking to her round cheeks

white against the rose of her skin.

A blink, a babyish giggle,

a motherly hand brushes the rice away,

another pudgy fistful travels.

 

The metal spoon clinks

against the edge of her plate,

her eyes track

the frustrated lines on ma’s face,

ma’s sharp inhales match her spoon’s

clink, clink, clink, clink

until she notes the sharp glance,

the hand raised in warning.

The familiar white grains

swim sadly, submerged in sancocho,

the word strange to her mouth,

the food strange to her eyes.

A hesitant bite first,

a happy bite second,

till the metal spoon clinks

against the edge of her empty plate.

 

She glances at her plate,

plays with familiar food,

the unfamiliar silence too big to chew around.

Three spoons move out of order,

waiting

for the clink of a fourth.

She glances at her plate,

waits for the familiar food

to make the silence the size of grains.

-L