Mom Poems

In Portugal, at water’s edge

A Chinese waiter gifts me

With a tiny painted gold and redwood Buddha

At the end of our dinner.

Three thousand miles away,

You remind me that you are there

That you can go anywhere,

With me.

I tell him what he has just done,

That you lived in Shanghai

For nine years,

That you had a Buddha collection

Which I now safeguard

And what this gift means to me.

The waiter, unnerved and honored

To have served, not just this meal,

But this purpose.

“What kind of Buddha is this?” I ask.

“He is holding a peach,

Which symbolizes long life.”

The one you wish for me, Ma?

The one you didn’t have.

All the Buddhas in your collection

Could not protect you,

But you still want to protect me

Or use them as currency?

I see you, Ma. And you are always here. 

Who remains of the soul

Where do you go

After the remains of your form

Have disappeared

I hear you speak

In the checks that arrive

In the labels on jars

In the feelings of fear

The signal is weak

But each image evokes the unmistakeable…

We are still breakable

After what remains of the day

Goes away.