By Tan Jia Yan / Poetry /         Last Friday I found maggots in my dinner. Slimy, dense things reminding me of my own mortality. The cashier at the grocer was an old man with the kind of almond eyes that make you feel translucent. Brainless too. Like a maggot. Stupid, isn't it, to think $3 would always get you something good. To think myself infallible. I thought about vomit. Sweaty strands of hair pulled back. Cold air hitting my neck like a warning. The maggots were everyw