NKATSENKWAN
www.wayfaremagazine.org
Your father’s love language is ignoring your protests while he piles on more and more rice. Your plate turns volcanic, spewing stew sopping with palm oil. The spices stain your thumbs, melting your tongue numb. He calls you skeleton, scoops up another smoking serving. While you stuff yourself, he remembers his own father, slurping soup that singed his nostrils. He remembers watching the shared bowl pass from father to mother to oldest brother until finally landing lukewarm in his lap. You lap up the last dregs, loosen your belt. Remind yourself this is the way he knows to love you best, so tight you could collapse into yourself.
Alixa Brobbey is a poet and law student currently based in Provo, Utah.
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