This city’s hunger is sacred, pooled like a ladle,
folding into itself like paper. We are

sworn into this room, foodsmoke and menu paper
where scent is sole guide and guides alone

by fluorescent lights that cast shadows. Alone
we show up to be fed by the hundreds.

Our neighborhood contribution in the hundreds,
the altruism of Asian/Latin American fare.

To call this food from either of our homes is unfair.
We too, are shadows of American grease

swapping oils from skin-to-skin when we meet.
I ask this bag of takeout if we can run away together.

Find our birthright that puts us back together.
Our appetite sacred, a city spooled fable.