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I’m Easy The tripe in my pho has the pliancy and texture of those plastic grips that keep you from slipping in the shower. I munch a bouquet of cartilage, savoring my own hardness, a slim white girl unafraid to eat, even this—even tendon, pickled herring, greasy chicken neck. I have acquired tastes because I crave connection. I like the beansprouts, jalapeños, and mint, but I have acquired the tripe and with it the attention, maybe even admiration, of the people around the table on that chill evening in Chicago. They didn’t see how I fussed the whole way about my hair losing its curl in the rain, or stamped my foot over and over, attempting to scream my lost glove from its hiding place. And Kevin, who saw it all, remembers the tendon. There’s a scene from my freshman year I often return to, watching as if from across the street— the whole twinkling width of Comm Ave.
