POETRY BY PAMELA SEONG KOON

the particular sadness of dinner

as a child i ate mother’s steamed fish,

complaining about its

blandness. always forgetting salt.

always misplacing something—not

like other mothers—asking for

descriptions of things lost.

truth is that the craft of mothering

isn’t all carefully picked fish bones

(whatever mother thought was

enough). maybe there was no chance

of a teacher perfecting a dish for dinner.

learnt the hard way when she retired only

because her footsteps started to

wail, voice coming out in sputters.

the hands that knew how

to curl letters into ribbons now made

text messages the only form of

communication; ironically the only

way she says she loves me, ever.

no more plucking of bones from

unseasoned fish. no reminders

that the salt is always at the same

corner of the table. the person who

left home the same time each

day has retreated to waiting, and

still doesn’t know where to look

when i ask for what i lost.