my thirteen year old
daughter
(who once
wasn’t mine
but now
she is)
eats noodle soup
topped with poached egg
and seasoned with chili oil
on a Wednesday afternoon
in the fall
after school
school makes her hungry
and she idled through English class
craving the spicy burn
because noodle soup is comfort
now
after
13 months of calling her mine
but when she came
she did not eat noodle soup
she did not
no
nose not quite mine
not my husband’s either
would crinkle up
at the unfamiliar
sight
rice noodles
so unlike spaghetti
bok choy
not spinach
quivering poached egg
perched aloft
trembling as her fears
will they make me eat this?
will I be good enough?
will they keep me
will they love me
will we be a family?
what will Christmas be like?
my birthday be like?
dinner be like?
will it be
noodle soup?
forever
unfamiliar?
Strange
13 months and now
noodle soup is home
she can handle
her hashi
even to transport
five fat gyoza
to her mouth
which isn’t mine either
but she is
mine.
daughter
of the
noodle soup.
