Chopsticks (A Sestina)


Strange how I never noticed you before
I taught you to use chopsticks.
We walked through the rain all day;
on the table, two streams puddle together
as water drips off our skin
and I sit face to face with you.

Why didn't I sit beside you?
I would have, had I ever felt before
this need to touch your skin,
to wrap my fingers around your fingers and the chopsticks
and press them all together
with each grain of rice we grasp. Today

fades outside the window. Ribbons of day
and night wrap themselves around you;
within your face, dark and light together
in the brief moments before
the sun sets. The chopsticks
send a tiny sliver into your skin

as you try to remove the skin
from the Chicken Katsu. Today
I cannot object to your bad table manners, to your chopsticks
periodically slipping and flinging your
food, the piece of chicken landing on my plate before
me, waiters in the kitchen together

laughing, joking quietly. You press your lips together,
mutter curses at the loss of skin—
less meat. I hadn't noticed before
how in the last of the day—
light your dimples fill with shadows when you
frown. You give up, toss the chopsticks

to the table; the rice no longer sticks
together
under all the sauce. I should have warned you
that teriyaki has limits. You let your skinny
fingers glide across your cheek; I day—
dream of letting our fingers intertwine in the moment before

you stand, my skin pressed to yours, our hands like two chopsticks
not yet broken apart. The day becomes purpleness, moon together
with stars in your eyes as night rises before you.


Simone Pugh