near the old bridge in new jersey, the last

chinese restaurant, shutters kicked in, plastic

bags strewn, grease traps and clogged sink 

smelling of sesame oil, remains 

my father came by on saturdays to order,

number 44, broccoli with beef, braised pork over rice,

reminder to put the forks on the side, an encouragement

in mandarin, a knot stuck in my throat 

i pick up the phone, and the words don't flow

like black sugar and honey, they crystallize on 

my tongue

please, i'll have the spareribs « qing 

wo yao paigu » the silence brimming

when the neighbors speak, english traced

with bengali, spanish, korean, the current subsides

but then it returns, a lifetime of words spilling

too many for my tongue, a spray of syllables

swirling from my lips, preparing tones that stumble 

& stretch & crack on my teeth, tearing & 

flooding my flesh, piercing & prodding 

my cheeks as the accents melt together 

& sugar dissolves into bitterness &

a click on the line

the cashier says nothing when i arrive

a rattle of coins, some scratched up pens,

plastic bag exchanged for bills

i return with a linger of sweetness

« xie xie » a taste of the 

saccharine sounds 

Sharon Lin is in her third year at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. She is the daughter of Chinese immigrants.

MIT ‘21 | twitter @sharontlin | facebook @sharonlinnyc

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