tilapia

translated by PLS

I don’t understand

why would someone who knows how to cook

tear up in the kitchen

is it because the stove becomes a turret

or the sauces a drink of leisurely fun

in fact it’s the groans of a wronged ghost —

wide eyes staring like a lightbulb

resentments bursting onto the chopping board

palms sparkling with scales

with half of the head remained

bones of theirs, spurs of mine

drawn out one after another

displayed across the board

thrown into a bin

the smell of that river slaughtered by the butcher

that ancient smell of the dead and of lifelessness

rushing through the nose to the brain causing one to tear up

I shut my eyes with disgust

listening to the sizzling of the frying pan

after all, I am as stuck as you

you don’t want to become my food

neither do I

to sacrifice your life for mine

when everything circles to the end through boring samsara

when ruthless hands keep everyone’s fate under control

in this world of rivers

raging waves leaving one no way out

in the end, there’s only a grieving sound of the wind left

why would someone who knows how to cook

have tears all over her face in the kitchen