On Eating Black Risotto in a Hurricane
little caskets with herbs twirled around
hard little grains laced with garlic—I’m
thinking they could be insects, thoraxes,
nut shells, but not rice. Their squid ink
frightens me. At the dinner table my father
eats a whole fish until only an open head is left
eyes squeezed out and mouth just barely
open looking west where there are only mountains.
It is flooding on the coast; there must be fish there,
and maybe fishermen, waist deep and lines cast.
About the Author: Joey Lew is currently a MFA Candidate at The University of North Carolina at Greensboro. Her interviews and reviews have been published in Diode, Michigan Quarterly Review Online, and Tupelo Quarterly.