I wish for apple skin sunsets for you,
and may the fairies bless you with blueberry stars,
a bruised hue of battered pride and midnight.

Lined with lace, the conjurings of our tastebuds 
and cool sink water on fingertips as I write.

I've never been good at stitching, but I take the tiny
hotel kits and sew red buttons onto my desk,
the two extras that came with the new coat Grandma
bought me last Chinese New Year's.

My hair is tangled into forget me knots.
Was I supposed to remember, or were they?
The flowers are just pretty now, if we both forgot anyway.

Ergo, we fancy ourselves philosophers as the bathtub drains
and consider how we know we're sentient, if knowing is enough.

I can feel the tears on my cheeks, see God
pinching a pipette to drop it hastily on my cheek
while my eyelashes flicked closed for a century, a second.

So don't laugh at the cows, they're the best of us –
sleeping, blinking beauties, by the rice paddies.

Milk and apple skin, strong bones and sewing pins
that prevent age from wrinkling at the corners,
from dragging its lips to the tired spots of our skin,
hiding berry breath in every soft fold.

Blueberry crepes, unpeeled apples, sink water droplets –
this is a mother's recipe for beauty,

and for breakfast.