Mama, Come Back

　　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.