Scallion Pancakes

I work the dough beneath my hands,
familiarly. I am making myself dinner tonight.

My heart is in Atlanta, grieving. I know it has
every right to be, but still, sometimes, I doubt.

The dough is sticky, supple, and soft -- wonderfully
elastic. But yet, somehow still so firm and steadfast.

In fourth grade, a girl on the bus pulled her eyes back thin at me.
In highschool, my friends marveled at the enunciation of my tones.

I roll the dough flat and bring it to life. Sesame oil, green
onions, and five-spice: the ichor flowing through its veins.

My lao lao lived with us for two years.
We could never talk to one another.

I wrap the dough in a spiral, first lengthwise, then around.
It has trouble sticking to itself, without some gentle prods.

The woman at the make-up store remarked how I was much
lighter than she thought. My foundation is called Bisque.

The dough then goes into the pan, golden
flakes bubbling up against the pale disk.

If my brother were here, he'd make a grilled cheese
instead. I used to be like him, but I'm glad I have matured.

My scallion pancakes are delicious. When was the last time
I called home? I will tell my mom that I made her recipe soon.