By Paul Christiansen
Featured Art: “The Passion of Alice” by Gabriela Denise Frank

Culture comes down to pressing the fish 
into sauce with their guts intact 

or sliced out. Always the part in the story 
where the captain must abandon the riches, 

18 months of silk or pepper or whale oil  
sinking while the crew makes for the lifeboats. 

Always the part where the immigrant child is mocked 
for the fragrance of the lunch their mother packs. 

In times of war, the price of live whales plummets, 
the price for whale meat soars. 

Every day is a day during war.  
This lazy anxiety, the waves of large inland lakes. 

The water stain streaking my bedroom ceiling 
resembles the Sino-Soviet split. 

Snow leopards are not leopards,  
they’re more closely related to tigers—

what does this knowledge get me? 
Over a spread of seafood, Dạ Ngân scolds me. 

I can say I enjoy eating the shrimps’ heads, 
but should not say that I enjoy eating the shrimps’ souls. 

It’s unclear if this is because we don’t know 
where a shrimp’s soul is, or if shrimps have them. 

Or maybe, we shouldn’t admit 
to enjoying the eating of souls. 

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Paul Christiansen is the author of the essay collection “Beneath Saigon’s Chò Nâu” (Phương Nam Publishing House). His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Best New Poets, Gulf Coast, Pleiades, Plume, Threepenny Review, and elsewhere. A former Fulbright Fellow, Paul resides in Saigon and works as Content Director for the arts and culture publication, Saigoneer.