Tampopo by Lori Yamamoto

Verse 1 (The Witness) There is a woman in a small kitchen. She moves like she is dancing with something invisible. The knife is an extension of her hand. Verse 2 (The Bones) Deep in the pot, things are happening without light. Bones are giving up their souls all through the night. The broth is becoming a memory. Verse 3 (The Search) She is searching for a color. A clarity. A certain gleam that says, *Now. It is ready now.* The steam is a curtain she walks through. Verse 4 (The Traveler) It is not for her, this bowl. She has had her fill of tasting and waiting. It is for the traveler who comes in cold and very still. Verse 5 (The Watching) She loves the cooking, yes. The steam. The patient heat. But more than cooking, she loves to watch them finally lift the spoon. The moment they breathe in. Verse 6 (The Small Things) A pinch of salt is a small, white philosophy. A splash of soy is a dark wisdom from a jar. She turns a bowl into a vessel. Verse 7 (The Marrow) Let the marrow melt. Let the flavors find each other in the hot, dark water. It is the only peace she has ever been able to find. Verrse 8 (The Bowl) She does not need fame. Gold is heavy and useless. She needs a story that fits inside a ceramic bowl. A perfect, steaming story. Verse 9 (The Fire) She stirs the fire until the day breaks open. The bitterness fades, becoming something else. Something that tastes like beginning. Outro She stops. She listens. The bowl is empty. The traveler breathes. She says nothing. But her mouth makes a small shape. It is not a smile. It is something older. Something that knows. Next.