Vigil

Eileen Chong

i.m. Yeap Ah Choo

I cradled the legs of a raw chicken in my hands
and thought: this is dead flesh. It was my grandfather

who ate the first meal I ever prepared. He died
that same year. The morning after my grandmother

passed on, my mother asked for rice porridge.
It is palatable comfort; we are bereft, and crippled.

On screen, my grandmother’s eyes were dulled.
My voice rang out in the room: empty echoes. 

When I was seven, and hungry, I’d asked her
to cook me lunch from a packet of instant congee.

I read the instructions out loud, counted down
the minutes, and said it was ready. She showed me

the rice grains: still hard, and unyielding. I can’t
find my way to the other side, she’d cried. Do not shake

my body when I am gone, or my soul will scatter—I hold
no vigil by her coffin. I burn only joss-paper words.