Immigrant kitchen

Rice cooker, c. 1999.
Green toaster, same year.
Under the stove, a 25 lb. bag
of milagrosa: Flying Fish, Three
Ladies, Twin Elephants, or Golden
Lotus brand. Disposable chopsticks
held together by rubber bands.
In the pantry: parchment-skinned
onions, curled orange Cs of dried
shrimp. Jars of precious funk.
Grandmother, send me the recipe
for fermented fish and rice
in a dream. I still remember
what you said about burying
unripe mangos in the rice bin:
in about a week, no longer green,
their bodies emerge— nearly warm,
nearly dimpled with sweet.

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