Genevieve Lin

My grandmother pierces the water with her fingers

And traces the fresh dumpling skin

In a half-crescent

Smooth and shimmering

Like a dragon tail curling

In a pale white sky.

I mirror her strokes

Watch the dumplings swimming in the big silver pot

Sometimes I draw circles

Eternal moons 

Pressed into the soft skin.

Together we dip in and out

Slip between the water and the spoon 

And the bowl of pork filling 

Skin on skin on skin.

The warm scent of boiled dumplings fills the air

And the kitchen smells like music

As we perform our quiet dance

To a secret rhythm only we know.

My grandmother and I coax each cold form into a sun

Cradling the creases with our fingertips

Until golden rays escape our hands. 

She lets them fly

So do I…