For mom

A lock of hair soft as baby skin,
two pieces of ivory for teeth.
Three ridges in the bellybutton,
toenails curved into four crescents,
a pair of tiny shoes size five.

All these you keep in an ang-pao tucked
away in the closet, nestled between your clothes.
The red has faded over the decade, going brown,
but you still go through them every year,
ancient artifacts fresh as a newborn.

You see me cut my hair, dye it blonde,
swallow the bile from my brutal words biting.
You cut my toenails occasionally
and realize how rough my sole has gotten,
skin calloused from blisters and the steps I have
taken since I was six months old,
no more tenderness now.
At night you fold me in your arms, curling against me
like a fetus — wishing I was a fetus again,
but I always kick you away.

You see all this and it overwhelms sometimes.
How my shadow has become longer than yours,
how it is no longer possible for us to sleep in the same bed,
how I no longer smell like milk back when I was a babe —
So you go back

to your ang-pao,
the hair teeth bellybutton toenails shoes
fit easily in your palm, the ghost of your baby’s hand.
But even they are fading away, the scent of baby milk has

turned sour.

*ang-pao: a chinese red packet