Hot Dry Noodles

I know a woman

who killed her teacher

In the revolution

And who cooks up

The finest noodles

– and easily the spiciest –

In the mortal arts.

Oh

Consider the taste

Of a melting brown sun

Over fat ropes of dough,

Old scallions, cold chilli

And dead garlic chives.

How she invests in new lives

With her feculent paste.

Though

I have not the nuance

To reasonably evaluate

The history of mortals,

This woman I can say

Has positively moved

From proletarian revolt

And murder of generations  

To mastering the science

Of a reanimation.