You love the noodles.
Slurp and grunt above them,
your face a wild moon
above a tide of rice and soy.
Sometimes I correct you
even though you don't call me
mother yet. Tonight, instead,
I lose myself in your graceless
hunger. The chopsticks
in your fingers click and slip
through translucent strands,
grasp and lose, lose again.
My heart says keep going, your
moving hands are beautiful.
My other heart says let me
feed you, let me lift the plate.