—after Jenny Xie

You yank me into the jittery split of your first
generation fracture, your firm grasp on my hem
like an orphaned language that wants to find its kin.

Are these your memories, pronoun weak
and tense-jammed, spanning far fields and oceans,
or are they the necessary stories your mother told?

Untethered letters and reckless parts of speech,
supernatural lines. You see bridges and bowls
of rice burdened with extra vowels and verbs.

All the earth is your acquaintance, yet you never
allow a simple street to hold you. You boil down
the fat of your yearning until its bones flake.

Please, enjoy the fragrant steam that follows you,
a friendly slip of noodles on your lips. Rest, serene
as those white sheets hung above a chattering alley.