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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 9, Number 1, March 2015


Kelsey Dean
Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA


Every Sunday morning, we ate hangover soup at the restaurant downstairs. The hot steam drifting up from the rice soothed the ache behind my eyes, and your hands were slow but steady as you passed me chopsticks and a spoon, and then placed a tiny napkin alongside my cup of water. The condensation ran along the metal surface in silvery ribbons to distort the paper as we waited. Your stomach was always louder than mine, but the spicy broth brought the same tears to our eyes, and the same smiles of relief to our burning lips.

eleven o'clock sunspots:
scallions floating
in my soup



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