Homeland
Home is not a place, but a feeling…
三杯面粉对一杯水，my grandma instructs
Reverting to gravelly mother tongue in a drowning Florida
My mother learns this craft with me — three generations
pinching flour and water together
Two pairs of clumsy fingers turning clever
One satisfied family, feasting
Hawaiian suns shine through the window facing Mauna Kea
On palms shaping rough dough into something of magic
Massaging simple ingredients into flesh-warmed skin
揉两百次。。。 sore hands become strong
Firm and supple, life-giving
Roll wrappers to hold spiced meat and egg
(一定要放姜，去腥)
Tasting like only home can
On the 19th floor watching fireworks
the kitchen bustles with laughter as flour gets everywhere
becoming dumplings bursting with as much flavor and color
as the sky I haven’t seen for years
Roasting my dad to keep warm in smoky winter
Click-clacking mahjong tiles, green felt
We felt every bit of weariness leave us
Left behind in the old years we once lived
Unfamiliar territory, too much to bear
still my hands do the work
Kneading because someone needs to
I breathe new life into this cold kitchen
Following the hands that taught me years ago
Bring this life back to new California
一，二，三。。。两百次
Each time missing the noise and warmth of years ago
Later I eat two plates of dumplings
Mother scolding me over the phone (she thinks I’ll get fat)
Fat off the food of my people
Nourishing, revitalizing
Home
