[AUDIO OUT] --my mother's village
with a sharp cleaver in her hand.
She said, ''What shall we cook tonight?'' Perhaps these six
tiny squid lined up so perfectly on the block.
She wiped her hand on the apron, pierced the blade
into the first.
There was no resistance, no blood, only cartilage soft
as a child's nose.
A last iota of ink made us wince.
Suddenly, the aroma of ginger and scallion fogged our senses,
and we absolved her for that moment's barbarism.
Then she, an elder of the tribe without formal headdress,
without elegance, deigned to teach the younger
about the Asian plight.
Although we have traveled far, we
must never forget that primal lesson
on patience, courage, forbearance, on how
to love squid despite squid.
How to honor the village, the tribe, that floral apron.
Thank you so much.
I wonder if we're talking.