by Dara M. Bergmann
Sometimes I get a little to much wasabi.
At these times my ancestors remind me
that Northern Europe is not known for spice.
Had they ever tasted sushi though,
they would have sailed their dragon-headed boats
past bland-tasting Britain and all the way to Japan,
seeking nori and vinegared rice,
trading war axes for chopsticks
as they surged ashore, demanding tamari tribute.
Terrifying in their nakedness or bear skins
they would have warmed the sake
and shouted a Viking “kampai!”
Had they know of sushi,
the Mongols of my father’s blood
would have cut a swath East, not West.
The Khans would have women
and the spider rolls!
They’d ride off to
the next conquest on horses
heavy-laden with futomaki.
But, that never happened,
I eat pickled ginger to calm the fire
tiny little seaweed wrapped islands
The Author invites you to send her any questions or comments. To contact Dara Bergmann, email her at email@example.com.
This poem was reprinted with the Authors permission.
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