bean sprouts

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 30, 2018

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Submitted: September 30, 2018

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mother told me,

go clean the bean sprouts

with your dad like usual.

cleaning bean sprouts meant

 

take off the ends of the sprouts

and throw away the bad stems.

my hands would craft the small

yet grown sprouts,

snapping the ends with a

slight crack!

and rid the dirty skins

in the dafty plastic.

 

today’s bean sprout job

was not the same.

my father took away

the pizza-stained dishes

we had for dinner and started

picking the beans

by my side.

we chat about the

news, small topics,

until he brings up

a revelation.

 

you would be fine if

stayed in any place

other than new york, right?

he peered into my

i cast them

down to my hands.

i went to tacoma

losangeles, you

would be able to handle it, right?

 

watched my fingers

wrinkle and

smear themselves in the

natural oil, whilst sniffing

the musty odor of

these bean sprouts.

did not dare speak,

kept my mouth shut,

i did, would

shed a tear or more.

 

i,

with my head down,

focused on the sprouts,

these sprouts, clutching

and snapping their

ends as quickly as

could. no matter

how much oil covered

my fingers or how much

of their smell was

absorbed into my

hands and mind,

did what i had

to do.

 

only had to focus

on finishing this

massive pile of

bean sprouts

i did,

would see the

bottom of the

stack.

 


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