Leftover Wontons

Chinatown is guarded by lions

that flank the street on either side. Beyond them,

you pull me through the mass

of Chinese voices, around the boxes of fruits

and vegetables that spill onto the sidewalk,

their names as foreign as they taste:

Sui Choy. Litchi. Durrians.

It's loud, noisy, hips and elbows

that knock against me as I cling tighter

to your fingers. We are surrounded by crimson lanterns, cherry

writing, burgundy silk fans, a jumble of bodies, red

heat, pressing down on us from all sides.

But once we maneuver

through the swarm, into the calm of Don Mees

we drink green tea from fragile cups, their handles

like elegant Chinese characters, creeping away

from the parchment. I'm not sure I like the taste

but I match you sip for sip, feel its bitter heat

burn the back of my throat, as waiters
bow their heads, unfold scarlet napkins in our laps.

That night, after we have feasted on leftover wontons,

spring rolls, sesame balls, I will fall

into bed, dream of lions perched high

above the crowd, gold heads watching over

everything red, pomegranates,

you.