So leisurely, I mount —

by the rims of my bowl, bent

a perfect dive into the broth.

.

In my bowl,

in my soup,

my arms reach for backstrokes.

My fingers brush aside the crab-meat gently.

Every burst of air pocket,

I breathe in dense sesame oil —

.

In my bowl,

in my soup,

the walls reach high.

I can barely make sense of the weather,

and who cares anyway?

We never fear cold drafts

for in our bowl,

in our soup,

the warmth envelops the nerves

our toes burn on the bottom dish —

forget your socks

.

The coriander leaf surrounds me,

an aromatic blanket —

giggling

as I sink

and sink further

to the bottom

for an afternoon snooze…

.

My father plays golf with the corn kernels

(“oi, fore!”)

and mother lounges stylishly

as though she is a mermaid

Queen, Lady of soup —

(“buatkan mak kopi”).

.

My brothers and I fashioned skyscrapers as you would sandcastles

with the leftover rice shimmering in the bottom corners.

.

Expertly, we dove

between gulps of air

we dreamt far

we knew far

we learnt far

we saw far

we studied the legends on the maps

we know the world exists

but who cares anyway?

.

In my bowl,

in my soup,

mother peppers us with dizzying doses of salt.

We can’t help

but drift contentedly,

sluggishly…

in our bowl,

in our soup