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.