When I was sick my mother would rub tiger balm
on my belly and let me watch Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady
I thought something about Eliza Doolittle
scrambling for coins in London cured me
now I think it was my mother’s hands.
When my Ah Tai died, my mother disappeared
so we ate burnt chicken until she came back
I think she thought praying would help but
Ah Tai was 95 and probably wanted to go
Ah Tai wore two-piece synthetic pantsuits, told me
how tall I was at Chinese New Year
we didn’t talk much, she spoke Cantonese
but I learnt to look and be looked at.
When she came back, my mother was fine
but grief did something—
since learning about my breakup
she sends me quotes every day
today’s is:
IN ORDER TO HEAL A WOUND, YOU MUST STOP TOUCHING IT
I don’t tell her that I like inspecting wounds
and being reminded of my aliveness
my mother would call that UNHEALTHY & TOXIC
but sometimes, she sends photos of my brother’s baby
eyes closed and swaddled, he rests
against her chest, I see her rocking him, saying, darling
Wen-Juenn Lee writes and edits in Naarm. Growing up as a Malaysian-Chinese settler in Wellington, she uses her writing to explore concepts of home: a word that leaks. Her poetry has appeared in Southerly, Landfall, and other places.
