Dream that you are asleep
beneath a mosquito net
next to your mother
who is always singing.
Forget that you are sixty.
Time flies when you’re
surviving with meals to eat,
people to talk to, insulin
injections to your belly.
Wake up with Mama
on the back of your throat
like the bone of a fish, caught.
Forget that she is long gone.
It’s been almost twenty years.
Longer since she lost her legs.
Remember? Memory travels
through several time zones,
rises up in the air for hours. It is
the checked bag you thought
would never arrive, but was,
all along, waiting for you
on the carousel, one you didn’t
recognize. Decide which bag
to carry on. Decide what
becomes anniversaries,
what to long for, what lyrics
to sing, when to keep sleeping
and when to wake up.
image: Dorothy Chan
