‍ ‍he lay on ice in want of carp

Sunday nights your mother calls
from Taiwan and all day, knowing
she’ll scold you for leaving her
to die, we don’t cross you.
Our room is clean before you
walk by. The window is opened
for birdsong and breeze and closed
for the first raindrop. You shout
for carp from the freezer
and our heels don’t touch the ground.
If you asked, we’d thaw it
between our chests, two brothers
like a sandwich, a food
you’d only seen on TV
before America, the story everyone’s heard
where we return on the first day of school
wanting a PBJ on the second.
Sorry we were so unoriginal. Sorry
you moved to this town
with no Chinese mothers to tell you
as much. Sorry we leave you
alone all Sunday and it’s quiet like we’re sleeping
but quieter. Sorry you’ll burn
the carp. Sorry her words will singe
the night through. Sorry tomorrow
you’ll start a new week.