My 妈妈 (māma) worries my slow bulging way of
swallowing begun by guiltily having double cups
of coffee; yet she moves coffee bean
mogshades closer to me, resetting a rust-crested
hourglass to pass undigested habits.
If I was given anything it was boiled eggs and burnt peanuts and
a strawberry-like keratosis condition—
like a fool, I say nothing both she and the ailing whims
can hear owing paranoia of welfare, but
妈妈的 (māma’s) criticism runs with thorn-proof leather gloves,
inky pores brushing pea-drenched verdant undertones.
Her shoulders rest on a brief shine of
instinct to always give out the last seeded, ripe fruits.
妈妈的 (māma’s) criticism runs with hour-long shelf studies
at local supermarkets to find mold or
swirly creases on nectarines,
and I tell her to be patient, but it’s gloaming out
and she orders double spoons to taste
test another life.
Artwork by: Aurel Naray
