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.