Winter Yim

Chicken Wings / One Wasn’t Enough

Things my father taught me —
how to hold chopsticks, to ajar
teapot lids for refills, to flat side
cleaver smash
garlic, to chew chicken
cartilage, slurp
bone marrow.
He used to wok cook
wings, gushed in
a brown sauce bath.
We called the dish
“special special chicken”
‘cause one wasn’t enough.

Now, my brother prepares
dinner: barbecued wings.
Their unborn daughter has
kicked. She marinates in
amniotic fluid, working to
become human. There is no
recipe for this. Winging it in
little charred bits, generations
break skin, and we
dig in. Fatty and golden, the
dining room light glistens.

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Winter Yim is an emerging writer originally from Massachusetts and currently based in New Jersey. Their writing covers themes such as home and belonging, identity, transformation, and invisibility.

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