by Jaden Fong
I.
Wooden pier splinters
battle the indigo threads
stationed on the bottoms
of our newly fading jeans.
Our frozen breaths weave
with hot umami steam and
concocts something new
amidst the creaking sea.
Clumsy, bulbous clumps
of San Francisco sourdough
tossed about carelessly through
the air like birthday confetti—
into the mouths of fishes below
in the bay, between the wood
slats, on top of the wool hat
drooping over my tiny head.
My giggles launch and dance
out into the fog; the flash from
your camera scares the gulls enough
for them to back off of a writhing crab.
II.
A can opener coated in cream
goop, teabags of echinacea
spread on the granite counter.
The kettle rages on with a frantic
cry, a news anchor warns
of impending rain. My coughs
muffle the jingle of Ozzie’s collar
and tags as he eats like it’s
the first and last time he’ll
have a full bowl. Your hair
is restrained back in a plastic
clip—a foreign look to me.
I munch on oyster crackers
as you add salt to the pot and
tell me about how your side
of the family always needs
to add more salt to everything
they eat. I glance at the shaker
and sprinkle some in my hand,
then pour in a whole cap full.
III.
My Honda crooked on
the line, a man cursing it
for eating too much
space in the lot, no doubt.
Keys fixed on the forefront
of the table for the restaurant
patrons to see. You tell me
the best way to angle my head
for when I get to the DMV:
neck down, chin up, pretend
someone just said my name.
An old trick from your Levi’s
days. I exhale the nerves off
into my bowl and stir Tabasco
rain into chowder paint. Looking
at the man in the parking lot
raise his hands at my car like
Moses, we laugh until your
foundation smears and pick at
the bread on each other’s plates.
IV.
The cushions of this one-
man booth in this small
beach diner sink under
the weight of my light
wash denim. The waitress
calls me “Hun” and
tells me that the special
is swordfish. The dingy
sign out front says that
the clam chowder is
the best in town—“Hun,
you can’t go wrong
with the chowder.” I slurp it
down like water, watch the gulls
squeal over a beached fish,
and scavenge the remains
of the bread bowl
in front of me. Thanking
the waitress, I shove
the last corner of the loaf
in my pocket and crumb
it as if I am fingerpainting
or making blackberry jam
at the kitchen counter. Back
in my car, I fling pieces
out the window, hoping
the trail will lead the gulls
all the way back home.
KELLEN’S TENDERLOIN
by Kellen Stahl
JADEN FONG is a Chinese American writer with a sweet tooth and a soft spot for the whimsical and peculiar. A two-time nominee for the Aliki Perroti & Seth Frank Most Promising Young Poet Award, you can see his work on tea-stained paper and contact him through Instagram at @jadenwriter.
KELLEN STAHL was a nonbinary pillar of the recovering community at the Salvation Army Harbor Lights Residential Treatment Center in San Francisco. They passed away of natural causes in the middle of the Covid pandemic, three years sober. Their sketches of San Francisco are testimony to their love of The City.
Ignatian Literary Magazine 