Every morning starts with sesame oil
     on the countertop. Minced pork
 
spooned only by Ah Ma's hands. Mouths
     filled with chopped scallions & spring
 
fresh by the door. & the room, like a
     winter barley. The knife making its way
 
through dumpling skin: soft & clear
     & calloused with touch. Some days
 
even Ah Gong would join in & wrap
     his arm around yours. This was how
 
every morning started with sesame oil
     until it didn't anymore. Until the mind
 
became a tired thing & decided one day,
     the minced pork should stay frozen. Left
 
to expire. The memories should stay
     forgotten faces. None of these were
 
in her recipes. How I didn't know that time
     passes through the body like Cantonese
 
I was too young to learn & she was
     old enough to leave with. How every
 
August brings with her the same old words
     still cabbaged with longing. How some days
 
I can almost smell the sesame oil &
     the mornings they've since unseasoned with.