by Alice Xu
Grandmother slaps dough
onto the cutting board, rolling
it over once more. Recipe―a memory
performed in motion: fleshed veins
when she flattens, angle of hers arms,
arch of her hunchback.
The flour spreads like pollen. Rolls
sliced and stuffed and staggered
while the oven goes off, and the final batch
goes in. This is morning: the counting down
as flour and dough lines her palm and the scent
of cooked beef escaping from the oven cracks.