The boy I love & I go to a Kroger,
looking for our younger selves,
with plastic bags in fist.
A good leek, like a woman
placed in in baby-white rice,
is earthy and layered. Makes
a good dish. So we dig into
circular grooves to clean stalks out,
our pale joints lapped up by sorrel,
in denial that we were looking for
something more slender, that
despite the green, it’s not us. We’re
too snarky for the cream & intolerant
of seasons. We don’t know mild.
It’s our last time in a city with only
one kind of grocery store, our bodies
leafy & undeniably Chinese, looking
for a place to put down roots.