Pot Testation or, An Instant of Noodles

I bought a pot.

It wasn’t huge,

but enough to cook instant noodles in my dorm,

so they no longer had to be wiggly, crunchy, oily puffed, &

firm. So they no longer had to

smell the seasoning bags.

— or so they thought. Here,

people watched with mouths agape at poisoning

only by the smell of the artificial

braised beef flavor, as I prematurely

placed it in the microwave once, an instant or two,

unknowing the plastic would melt, shape the food, &

digest into my body, or so I thought. Here,

everyone knows about me, aping Poirot, puffed the friend

who stole my pot from my vanity table, the proctor

who caught her cooking, confiscating the pot, another friend

who the first shoved to beg it back from the proctor

before I woke up with what a twisted tongue!

Is this just another open mic, something they made up &

rehearsed just to make you

unpack your pride, anger, &

sorrow to more anonymous people? I tried

to erase my trace around

as a sulky child who in disbelief, that the past New Year’s Eve,

with instant noodles she thought to assuage

the fiends, or so she thought. She allowed the

chopsticks in, took eel balls &

slices of beef out, leaving the instant noodles &

the messy pot unwashed, unsettled, & under

her bed for the countdown at Manhattan el!

Weeks later, my school warned

of the havoc of confiscating pots for another round,

I slink into the school’s dining hall.

I grabbed more disposable chopsticks,

trying to fill the drawer so again

they’d be able to demolish my instant noodles —

or so they thought. I propose that

the proctor, the friend, the other one, &

the rest of them plotting against my pot

all look into the trash of a girl who’s learned to Doordash®.

By Graciela Zhang