soy sauce
squirts like ink from its torn, ruined pouch
onto a fluffy green wad of bile-hot wasabi
strength dissolved by weakness
for the sake of the absorbent rice
pluck
each plump clump of precision sliced
organic geometry,
convey to sauce
and thence to mouth
in rapid assembly line
I wield these sticks
like an intermediate-level
expert, still conscious of my skill
not yet one with this extension of my hand
people say raw fish is disgusting, well
they should have seen the first draft of this poem
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