why do we speak this language, its loss, of love?

two poems

Ah gong prays for long life,                     long health

I notice you lose yourself 
in the nutrition section in the library,

ah-gong. When you only 
think about economic policy 

sometimes now because of your kidney. 
And how you have been raided by disease 

that rejects potassium and phosphorus as poison to the body. 
You don’t eat bananas and salted nuts anymore. 

This body, made of flour, drinks from the sink 
where it ends in vowels. I ask you 

what it was like teaching chemistry. You tell me how 
to open the belly of a pomegranate and pocket the seeds.

Ah-ma, on tough love

I beg you to help me understand,
        ah-ma. What love is when you tell me

to pull my hair back in a bun, 
        in case I trip 

and fall face first 
        on a conveyor belt, 

slashed in the pulley, 
        hair ripped out like weed, 

a face unrecognizable 
        even to you. 

Do you not love me then, 
        ah-ma. Talk to me 

when you first taught me 
        to never trust anyone 

because everyone is bound 
        to turn their backs, or worse

slaughtered in the dorm room at 2 am 
        with a lost ██████ in the air 

because ████ seems more inviting 
        in this wild life, 

where you only live once. I understand 
	fear, and fear pursues in unlikely ways. For once,

when you tell me to not fall asleep 
        naked, in case you are shaken 

by earthquake and left running 
        in the streets, slapped by the winds 

and lose face. 
        Diu lian. Sounding like “throw lotus” in Chinese. 

How to say this? 
        I am small and afraid. 

And yet, why do we speak this language, 
        its loss, of love?