superstitions

there were whispers
when Ma was a girl

that each grain of rice
left uneaten

would be a mole
on her lover’s face

so she licked dinner bowls
clean as the moon,

chopstick marks carved
as simian lines

along the wooden belly
scavenging for

loose pearls,
then she prayed

for a first kiss
soft as flesh

Audrey Wu lives and writes in Toronto.

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