Ramen

by Charles Haddox

Give us this day 
our daily bread
or ramen.

At the food pantry
there’s a whole wall of them,
soup cups, blocks of waves
in modest cellophane,
spicy, shiny, briny.

At the homeless camp
the water’s boiled
with a coffee can,
in the prison cell,
on a hotplate;
and in the hospital,
after Food Service closes,
a knowing nurse will bring
single-serve applesauce
and a cup of noodles.

At the Mission, someone asked me,
“Can you add a few canned peas.”
At the migrant shelter a cry went up,
“No more rice and beans.
Serve us ramen tonight.”

The noodles come to life
like a galaxy stretching its celebratory arms
or a flower timorously opening it petals,
and the broth is shared,
and the smile is born,
as we partake, together,
in a savory sign.

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Charles Haddox lives in El Paso, Texas, on the U.S.-Mexico border, and has family roots in both countries. He has worked in fair trade and as a grant writer and community organizer. His poems, stories, and essays have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies.