Any one have a copy of the poem ” Folding won tons in” By Abraham Chang?

"Folding Won Tons In"

Abraham "Abe" Chang

I’ve seasoned the pork like I imagine

My mother would—sesame oil, ginger,

pepper, scallions chopped

imperfectly.

Sheets of doughy skin,

I only have

the skill to buy.

Thumb and forefinger peel

each tender white scrap

of noodle from the clinging

stack. I pat the centers

pink—spoonfuls

of fragrant moistness.

Mimicking from memory:

A twist, a tuck, a folding over—

a finger lick of water

to seal my misshapen flowers.

My hands powderdusted;

acquainted with each

new blossom. I line them up

like newborns huddled

together, waiting to be fed

to their distant fathers.

The soup bubbles to overflowing:

I slide the dumplings in and stir

them dizzy. Freshly drowned,

swollen and glistening, steam hidden

for an instant—

I set them

on the table

and decide how many

I will save

for tomorrow.

Here's the poem (with graphics) at Columbia University's site: http://www.columbia.edu/cu/aj/archives/ajspring99/...

They are different for every book.

I’ve seasoned the pork like I imagine my mother

would—

sesame oil, ginger, pepper,

scallions chopped imperfectly.

Sheets of doughy skin,

I only have the skill

to buy.

Thumb and forefinger peel

each tender white scrap of noodle

from the clinging stack.

I pat the centers pink

with fragrant spoonfuls

the color of the fat sun in October

Mimicking from memory:

A twist, a tuck, a folding over—

a finger lick of water to seal

my misshapen flowers.

My hands powderdusted;

acquainted with each new blossom.

I line them up

like newborns huddled

together, waiting to be fed

to their distant fathers.

The soup bubbles to overflowing:

I slide the dumplings in

and stir them in their dizzy descent.

Drowned, swollen,

and glistening, steam hidden

for an instant—

I set them on the table

and decide how many

I will save

for one more day.

they are magnificent for each and each handbook. I’ve professional the pork like i assume my mom could desire to— sesame oil, ginger, pepper, scallions chopped imperfectly. Sheets of doughy epidermis, I terrific have the expertise to keep for. Thumb and forefinger peel each and every mushy white scrap of noodle from the clinging stack. I pat the centers pink with fragrant spoonfuls the colour of the fat image voltaic in October Mimicking from memory: A twist, a tuck, a folding over— a finger lick of water to seal my misshapen plant existence. My arms powderdusted; acquainted with each and every new blossom. I line them up like newborns huddled at the same time, waiting to be fed to their a techniques-off fathers. The soup bubbles to overflowing: I slide the dumplings in and stir them of their dizzy descent. Drowned, swollen, and glistening, steam hidden for an instantaneous— I set them on the table and decide on how many i'm going to keep for one greater day.