Crab Rangoon

Your room in hospice
is all lit up. 
Instead of a tree,

a nurse with ornaments:
stethoscope, blood pressure 
cuff, IV pole…

She means well, I guess,
but meaning well
is hardly enough…

I’ve ordered Crab Rangoon 
and Crispy Orange Beef.
I bring a spoonful

to your mouth,
though you can’t really
stomach much 

of anything.
(Like someone pregnant, 
I must eat for two.)

The smell is a kind
of incense in the Tent 
of Convocation.

Your only unreserved 
pleasure! Once,
at your favorite Chinese

restaurant in Manhattan,
an elderly man
came up and put
 
his hand on your shoulder.
“Still not interested,”
you barked.

How you would
protect yourself
from love!

The scallion pancakes,
which I got for free,
have made me cry.

So many little onions
in their beds…
And now it’s time

to tell your fortune.
Like Ceres, I crack
each lacquered

cookie in half
(I asked for extras)
until I find one 

I think you’ll like:
“Never say yes
to anything.”

Ralph James Savarese | Luging with Shiela
Contents | Mudlark No. 82 (2025)