"ah-ma"
sunday mornings in june
i hate bagels with lox
but i love
the repetition of simple events
beginning with the awakening of the sun
my mother
then me
the never rough but curiously persistent tug
at my feet
singing almost
wake up little pig
to the rolling dialect of my mother's native tongue
she smells like fresh air
will be ripe tomorrow pears
and she never reminds me about the time
i fell off the monkeybars
or accidentally told her
i didn't love her anymore
downstairs
down thirteen stairs where each step
dips in the middle from our constant barefooted tread
the kitchen
with all its open windows
and sunlight soaked floor
smells like sunday mornings
she is making thin pancakes
a little burned on the bottom
because that's the way i like them
dusk settles like dust
particles of apollo's last breath
we go for walks
she walks slowly
as if her feet are sucking in the beauty
that awaits every tender step
on these walks
i tell her about how much i miss
playing mah jong
the wet market at causeway bay
the time papa carried that unbearable burden
her new year's plant in the pouring rain
i never tell her about boys
because if her pupils dilate
i cannot help but cower
and fear of drowning
in the devastating purity of her love