Family Business

Leaves parched like dead bugs hang from our browning trees.
             Tonight, the backyard moon’s a sickle grin, flashing

your silver smile through the rice paper fog, your translucent skin
             draped over our city. Autumn & I catch shards of your face

on street corners, shards of a broken bowl: ghost white
             against thinning blue veins. Their teeth serrate the shrimp skin

under my eyes, brushing close enough for a trembling
             kiss. Shaky red mouths that shrivel into rust

                         as quick as they open. Sometimes I turn the corner too late and you hit

the ground before I can apologize. Other times, I turn & see you—
             your knife glinting over spring roll skins in our dark greasy tunnel

of a kitchen, waiting for a gentler season. I wonder what it’s like to mourn
             a life you never knew an ocean away, the edges of your paper face

wrinkling as I step forward. The way I learned it, becoming
             a mother requires outgrowing your need for a mother.

& as I draw closer the yellowed pages of your face are soaked
             and translucent, softening as I reach for your cheek

& wonder whether it was easier to outgrow a mother
             a lifetime away, across your shining sea.