Amanda Huynh – Poetry

To Her Husband

a durian shake is intimate, musk

collected in a glass: reminds him

of late nights waiting at Mẹ’s feet, thin

memories of suckling frozen red beans

sailing in coconut milk. Spooning

rice porridge, the folds of rice paper

for spring rolls. Skin of tangerines,

spikes of jackfruit. He takes

condensed milk in his coffee,

lets grease from bún bò huế noodles freckle

his collar, splash on her blouse. She chases

noodles around her bowl’s edges.

Chopsticks slip and she turns away

when he offers a tendon, a sliver of tripe.

Everything in Sriracha.

At family gatherings (his), she stomachs

spongey sausage, rice mashed with mung

bean. She doesn’t make eye-contact

with the boiled chicken, beak

framing its tongue, arms

strung to its sides.

At home, the blender protests

against a frozen durian pod.

She walks onto the balcony

when it pollinates the air.

The spores cling to the wall

waiting for her—

waiting to seed itself

in the Mexican soil of her skin.

To sprout on her tongue

and teach her taste buds

how to forget

the taste of a tortilla’s hot sigh.

Amanda Huynh is a native Texan. Currently, she lives in Virginia where she attends the MFA Creative Writing Program at Old Dominion University. She reads for the Barely South Review journal. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in 94 Creations, Huizache, and The Healing Muse.

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