Here Are Some Thorns, Splinters, Fishbones

Home for a pan-fried mackerel dinner,

           my mother watches my chopsticks stumble

around the 가시. Full after a few bites,

           I remember a story. When I was a baby

I choked on a fishbone at my grandparents’ house. My dad

           wasn’t there. They yelled at my mother

for not inspecting each flaky bit of fish I put

           in my clumsy mouth, not teaching me

the maneuvering of spiky slivers with my tongue,

           how to place the needles next to my plate,

extract white meat clean. Ever since, she peels and holds

           skeletons above our meal—fossils before me.

Still, I am bad at pulling bone from fish, cutting

           skin from pears, which means I’ll never

get married. But what about the nights where my mouth

           drips with SunGold kiwi, looking over

at my love, my lips smacking unabashedly.

           Me cupping the furry layer in my palm, and you

standing over the sink eating it whole.

           What would our mothers say? We laugh while I tell you

the story of how once, a splinter burrowed

           into the meat of my thumb, and I kept it there for weeks.

Told my parents the splinter came out on its own

           while I hoped my body would absorb the slender spear

and disappear the 가시 painlessly.