Dim Sum in New York City
Egg custard buns,
pushed around on steel
Dim Sum carts
like yellow centered wombs.
The soft dough jiggles,
slides against the raw crust,
until it almost breaks,
as the cart turns corners
around the dining room.
In front of me,
a small plate with a pale white orb,
soft and sticky.
It moves like a blob of fat when prodded.
Inside,
sugared egg,
cold custard,
a gel that sways as one.
Blue rays from the glass chandelier
bounce off the walls and hit
the ground.
I cut the bun
until the center oozes
out past the plate
and onto the tablecloth.
You say: Some days, I have more hope than others.
Stefanie Wielkopolan 