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Instant Ramen
Adrienne Su
Because the house was conceived by an architect
who hadn’t cooked his own meals,
the box dwelled vertically1 in the broom closet
slid aside to reveal a space so narrow
our perpetual case of Sapporo Ichiban
shouldn’t have fit. Yet the supply seemed infinite,
taking care of all who came home hungry,
dignity enough for a meal or a bridge
sick or well. Always there on short notice,
it saved us from takeout, saw both parents
through days of grading and bills,
weekends of yard work. Neither junk
Later, when I met it in public, saw it mocked,
I wanted to defend it, show it decked out
bright green peas, but was taken aback—
as if ramen were a stage one grows out of:
mythic years of cooking on a hot plate,
studying late, not having found true love.
I am ashamed to say I did not stand up.
I let everyone mock it, even mocked it myself:
grease with a side of MSG. I forgot who I was,
young and hungry, sliding aside the shoji
in search of transformation10,
in search of energy.
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