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  • Natanin Rachapradit

Thai Dish

Emptied myself into a pot,

Tipped my skull over the stovetop.

Wait as the grey matter intermingle,

Sizzle like a love song,

Scooped the marrow of my bones into the mix,

An afterthought,

High heat!

You can't cook a Thai dish,

With anything half-hearted,

Not the fire,

Or the spices,

You must cook everything with the blood,

And quiet rumination,

Chillies plucked from Phra Mae Toranee herself,

Bits of myself melt into broth,

The kitchen now filled,

With the smell of early adult angst,

Saltwater, semen, and glitter.

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