On Saturdays
Lolo Celo filled
my brother & I up
with lumpia
He’d wake at dawn
or earlier
or not sleep at all
He’d never even look
at his hands
just use his fingertips
to mix & roll
& crease & fold
& smooth & stack
rolls & rolls
towers of spring rolls
They covered
counters & tables
couches & floors
the top of the tv
the flat blades
of the spinning
ceiling fan
Darryl & I
got to stretch
bright strips
of aluminum foil
onto the brick wall
of the back patio
where Lolo
kept his wok
We’d watch him
gently slide pale rolls
into sizzling oil
while they cooked
he’d angle his tongs
and his slotted spoon
to splatter shimmering images
onto the foil canvas
a leaping rabbit
a robin an oak tree
anything we wanted
the smell of rain
on hot cement
We’d never wait
for the first batch to cool
just burn our lips
on crisp golden skins
let gingered ground pork
linger on our tongues
salty & tangy & sweet
Originally appeared in Pidgeonholes, March 2023
