Hereditary Disease

by Ashley Leung

On an impoverished Monday, about 10 years before Mother was born,

incarnated Mother’s headache

It ate rice, she ate flour

On an unremembered Tuesday, Mother embarked for Hollywood,

where her headache awaited

It had roof, she sheltered

On a wedlock Wednesday, the ring now worn on your forefinger

materialized around Mother’s left hand

A little cuff she had saved up for waiting tables

And she wrapped her right hand around a warm headache stable

On a twin Thursday, Mother multiplied herself

A joy with two eyes and a slobbery smile

A burden sent back home 6,810 miles

Mother’s headache shrunk in size, swelled in weight

On a severed Friday, Mother takes you back

So your developed eyes can now focus on her back

In the car, in the kitchen

In the shower, in the garden she built

to grow some herb flowers

On a seared Saturday, Mother’s headache burns her chest

with a plate of fried rice

She stands strong, but you crumble down

Scattered on the keyboard of your laptop

only she and you know the password to

On a Mother’s Day Sunday, you call her in formality

She tells you that her headache is worse

You tell her Mom, I know

I’ve inherited my own

Then proudly show her a photo

She mumbles intelligence

And in her face I shut the door of a suburb home

Myheadache is a pounding of the heart, a lyrical epic of fairytale pledges

A fried rice I didn’t make,

In tummy not on chest

Mother listens to me, but not really

She never takes the Advil I buy,

so I tell her to just wait until headache becomes dead heartache

I don’t even hate headaches that much

Yet here we are dreaming about when Father will die