The next morning, in
the kitchen, we eat

leftovers with tense
chopsticks; I drip

soy sauce (and of course
remember the first time

we had sushi and you,
in the Japanese

restaurant, looked at me then
spilled your whole damn

dish—a sodium-inked
paroxysm all over

the virginal tablecloth—
with that shocked, crooked,

guilty smile) and you eye
my smooth ginger, note

the spotted counter—then,
in the alien daylight

by the window where
your neighbors might

see, you shake, kiss me, tongue
amplified by wasabi.

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JEN COLEMAN was finalist for The Poetry Foundation’s 2013 Ruth Lilly Poetry Fellowships. Her work has appeared in The Southeast Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, New Welsh Review, WomenArts Quarterly Journal, Buddhist Poetry Review, and elsewhere. She earned her MFA from Hollins University and lives in Virginia with her two Manx cats.

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