Sitting cross-legged like a prayer, bare knees cold, Styrofoam split open, spilling steam and spice. The first bite scorches tongue, ignites the throat— A spark of joy hidden in grease and salt.

Outside, sirens echo in the night’s breath,
But here, nothing exists but oil-stained skin.
Chopsticks clatter, a ceremony of hands,
Each reach for more as sacred as the last.

Around me,...