family

we all go to the hibachi place
because we're celebrating something.
there's balloons tied to our
wrists: all of us have a birthday,
all of us are getting married, all of us
are graduating, all of us are hungry.
my brother gets chicken as his meat
& my uncle gets steak & my father gets
steak & i get shrimp because they're pink.
my mother can't decide because 
it's all so exotic, maybe just a salad.
we love the hibachi, catching broccoli 
in our mouths, the chef feeds us 
& speaks with the sounds of spatulas
on grille, the slick scraping of metal.
we watch him closely, the folds of
his wipe apron & red hat. he points
to me & i know he wants me to stand
on the grille. i listen to orders
as all children should, feet sizzling
in oil. my family claps-- what a trick!
the chef then takes me in his hands &
molds me into an egg; white & clear.
i feel my yolk heavy inside me,
a mouth full of egg white-- what a trick!
i spin for them on the hot surface, 
tucked into myself & he cracks me open.
instantly i cook yellowing on in the heat. 
he chops me into tiny pieces 
for the fried rice & i'm scattered amoung
the vegetables; tiny gem-like peas &
cubes of orange carrot. my brother
eats my shrimp & asks what we had 
come to celebrate & no one can remember.
my mother still hasn't ordered so 
she just eats the broccoli. all the balloons
pop at once from the tension. the chef
keeps making food to keep them there,
he doesn't want them to go him.
when they eat me, the egg, i feel
happy though. i had never know my family
like that-- like teeth on my body,
like the texture of their tongues
like the smoothness of their throats.
let's come back here sometime.