Hotpot

What am I supposed to make of these ghostly winter dreams of woodfires and hotpots, when I’ve grown up in the tropics? My ancestors seem to haunt me through a thick fog of forgetting. They will themselves past my incomprehension, nattering away in languages that are barely intelligible, like childhood memories, but I tell them I only “sek teng, mm sek gong”. They possess me from the hairs on my skin, to the forgotten regions of my stomach, and lead me on somnambulant adventures to eat my sarcastic words about seasonal foods. Maybe this is the sort of ancient magic that happens when a body crosses the threshold between eternal sun and shifting seasons.

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