Pork Belly on China

We face each other, stomachs heavy
with the anticipation of a rich meal. 
The porcelain of the bowl is scalding
but I do not mind it 
as golden broth warms my mouth.
I run my nails over the engraved chrysanthemums.

I am porcelain. I am stone. 
I am flesh. I am bone. 

You tell me your woes, and of course I tell you mine:
Your sister is moving again. I am worried. 
Eat more. You’ll stop growing. 
(Chopsticks slide a piece of pork belly onto my plate)

You tell me your woes, and of course I tell you mine:
Your sister is moving again. I am worried. 
Eat more. You’ll stop growing. 
(Chopsticks slide a piece of pork belly onto my plate)

Instead of a concrete answer, 
there’s another leaf of bok choy on my plate,
another napkin appearing in my hand.
Your finger taps the table’s wood grain,
tracing a path I cannot. You speak of your first flat:
Single burner, leaky faucet. I ate rice and egg for a week.
But then your father joined.

I am always your little porcelain bowl,
all my engravings leading back
to my spot in your cupboard.
The worry sits like a stone in my pocket still,
you have not taken it from me.
No, you have simply taught it how to weigh less.

The steam still curls between us.
I am stone, porcelain, flesh, bone, 
and blood.