To The Last Grain of Rice
By Melissa Chan, Writing Editor

My mother said you were the best of the meal.
"If you don’t eat everything in your bowl, you’ll get an ugly husband," she would say.
Speckle of a carbohydrate,
Debacle of satisfaction,
Who knew you had the power to seal my fate.
Although you are guarded by my mother’s words,
I hungrily attack you with skepticism.
I prod you with a chopstick but you are silent.
Oval silhouette against pale porcelain,
You look lonely there lying among the grease and chicken bones
Perhaps your husband left you for the last spoon of soup.