Rita Mookerjee

I Dream of a Goodbye Feast with My Ex

but not goodbye like a breakup, goodbye as in
12 hour time difference, as in holidays together
and nothing else, as in my family in the States
and his in Taichung. The dinner is fun, all
things considered, though only two people
at the table share a language, but translation
is rapid and small words illicit laughter:
crowded busy tasty cheers
The lazy susan spins, my lips coated, sesame slick.
I look at my mom, who is hopeful for me,
who loves my ex like a son and taught him to
pluck meat from his plate with fingers wrapped
in chapathi. I had to teach him to raise his voice
when talking to her, how the constant sizzle of oil
in the kitchen made it hard for her to hear, even
if she wasn’t cooking. When I wake up, all these
good smells—fermented tofu, chapathis, kebabs—
are gone and there’s only sweat and saliva.
Nauseous, I stressclean my bathroom
pouring bleach into my toilet and scrubbing
until wet flecks splatter my black tank
leaving peach lesions in their stead.
I do not change my sheets; sleeping in sweat
is penance for indulging the dream
as in. This indulgence will stay
on my mind. The memory of this dinner will
spoil my appetite on every date for five years to come.