Amniotic Poem by Jennifer Wong

In the morning before the schoolbus came
you pressed and folded into my small palm
four dollar coins.

You were a tall woman in a blue nightgown
and I was just this anyothergirl
who wore a pink rucksack and dreamt
of birthday sleepovers and piano lessons
I'd never had. I felt a lump walking down

the bright avenue outside school
lined with other parents' cars (fleeces
resting on their window glass) and how

I'd like to take my mind
off you: your hard-boiled eyes
and your cast iron discipline.

Mother, remember that dessert house
in the market you took me to?
Their faded walls. The hawker shouts.
A sago pudding shared

I hoarded up within my heart
all these years you never called.
I had to believe
in some kind of love.
I had to imagine.

I knew you'd be jealous to find me
with my own children,
wading through the same oceans.
Mother, we're the same woman.