"Noodle prophecy from a dream"
Sensible custom says that when the emperor
offers you a noodle from his priceless bowl
of udon, bow your deep gratitude--and refuse.
His servant will offer noodles to everyone.
All will bow, smile, bow, refuse. The emperor,
one day soon, will need to fight for udon, defend
each sesame seed from huns and djinis and dragons,
protect our right to eat soba with smoked trout
with his considerable armies and all his myth.
But what if, tourist that I am, I accept
the noodle? What if I suck it from the chopsticks
the servant clutches tightly, testing my resolve?
The white tendon will strain and snap and vanish
between my soupy lips, and that’s when I’ll bow.
Nobody will register shock, but it will be
understood that when the time comes, show biz or
no biz, I will fight alongside the emperor.
When generations have passed since our victory,
and dinner is over, we will be legends
over the land. But if antiestablishment
sentiments foment locally like heat rash
or burgeoning technology, then we who fought
for salt and water and dough will be cast down.
They’ll revile our intentions with every slurp.
This is how time turns and stretches: it just does;
while sea to sea, people suck down their noodles
and offer the reasons they feel in their bellies.
Some will go hungry, others will be sated;
the spicing of culture will change, and all will judge.