Chosen Home

After moving into half double domestic
step-

life, a dispatch from the nearest shore
of my recent bachelor past

bobbed like a bottled message:
A chinese menu tri-folded into the door

like a throwing star. The wide-eyed
seven-year-old blonde buzz-saw

found it first–like sunken treasure or
my stash of wintergreen Tic-Tac’s. For

Bunny, the ink jet printer fed paper
menu was a map of the exotic. Ornate

figures danced in order rows and
framed stock pictures. Sharpied

above the Great China Restaurant
name was the mantra: “We delivery.”

In a house of full cupboards and
bulging veggie crispers, we knew

the answer was no before she or
I could ask.

But the nights her
mom taught class, we knew we’d

never get to the leftover St. Seraphim
soup. It was Sweet and Sour chicken

with white rice–maybe some
chicken on a stick for good measure.

We cracked our fortunes from
We Delivery; Didn’t need to

read mine. Bunny snuggled against
me wrapped in a quilt like a blonde eggroll.