by Nellie Wong

by Nellie Wong
     Mama， come back.
     Why did you leave
     now that I am learning you？
     The landlady next door
     how she apologizes
     for my rough brown skin
     to her tenant from Hong Kong
     as if I were her daughter，
     as if she were you.
     How do I say I miss you
     your scolding
     your presence
     your roast loin of pork
     more succulent， more tender
     than any hotel chef's？
     The fur coat you wanted
     making you look like a polar bear
     and the mink-trimmed coat
     I once surprised you
     on Christmas morning.
     Mama， how you said "importment"
     for important，
     your gold tooth flashing
     an insecurity you dared not bare，
     wanting recognition
     simply as eating noodles
     and riding in a motor car
     to the supermarket
     the movie theater
     adorned in your gold and jade
     as if all your jewelry
     confirmed your identity
     a Chinese woman in America.
     How you said "you better"
     always your last words
     glazed through your dark eyes
     following me fast as you could
     one November evening in New York City
     how I thought "Hello， Dolly！"
     showed you an America
     you never saw.
     How your fear of being alone
     kept me dutiful in body
     resentful in mind.
     How my fear of being single
     kept me
     from moving out.
     How I begged your forgiveness
     after that one big fight
     how I wasn't wrong
     but needed you to love me
     as warmly as you hugged strangers.