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Gỏi Gà
I told her Vietnamese coldslaw
Lives with crushed peanuts
She tells me peanuts like peppers 
  Come from the America
So this dish is a young dish 
  A bit older than 1500s.
In the morning I boiled a pot
  With a cleaver, I divided the whole
Chicken born in the woods,
  The same lady who made goat milk soap
Into sectional proportions
  The thighs and wings would be
Mutilated with chicken broth, 
  Red sauce, ginger, red onion;
The breasts white as
  A geisha’s face will enter a 
Pot of boiling water
  I spent all afternoon crushing
The shredded floral bodies of
  The cabbage, the hearts of mint leaf
The heads of cilantro and shredding 
  Pre–cooked  chicken breasts
Until the geisha’s face 
  Becomes shards of crumpled light
That we all could eat
  In the late evening with
Crushed fish sauce made with 
  Lime juice, unfiltered fish, 
Serrano, garlic dipped in radiant 
  Light called post–dawn.  
   Black Snow
   Coat The Skillet
   Gỏi Gà
   How Long Have You Been Sleeping, Snow?
   Licking Light













