Doctor Dumpling

If I could be edible,

I would want to be

a steamed vegetable

dumpling, pure white

like my doctor’s coat,

crimped and sealed

with fine lines like

the star-burst designs

at the corners of my eyes.

My skin would be warm,

smooth on the tongue,

firm to the tooth, strong

enough to hold all

the chive and dandelion

flavors of a field in spring.

And I would float

in a porcelain bowl

filled with clear broth

and green scallion rings,

clones of their siblings,

devoid of a doctor’s

arrogance, just waiting,

the way I wait every day

for this hungry world

to devour me.