The plush loveseats, the pillows festooned with birds,

Bamboo stalks, the console hewn with dragons’ heads,

Their long tongues unfurled; the teal wallpaper 
Where a monkey clambers up a red-budded tree.

Cherry Blossoms? Magnolias? Such chinoiserie

As you wouldn’t find in all of China. Still here it is,
In an educated parlor in the eighteenth century, a kind

Of code for well-travelled-lord-and-lady of the house.

The way my mother tells it, she was twelve years old 
In New York City, four to five pugs leashed in each hand,

Each dog paid a quarter to walk in the Upper West Side.

Salems prised between tight fingers, her mother loves
Her ghosts: twice a war widow, once a mother.

The twelve-year-old buys the milk and the bread

And the butter. Slick, slanted eyes, with only a lick
Of green in them. Here she is with the Jones’s bitch,

Against sudden rain off the Hudson.

Her hands red and wretched, burned as much 
By leather as love. She remembers her mother

Eyeing the last two slices of bread on the counter:

Let’s pretend we’re rationing during the war, darling.
She remembers not to grimace

When the pug licks her mouth clean.

Because this is my version of the story, 
It is getting cold. Because I love my mother,

She is hungry, a child running on a square of bread.

Like a wrecked clock, her mind runs on shy gears: 
Sudden man at three-o-clock, sudden man

Progressing toward her over fast blocks; so fast,

Her knuckles give over tight dog leather.
Because he does not know her name,

He is calling after her

In his native tongue. 
At the museum, it is decided that the flowers

Are cherry blossoms, the monkey a kind of

Mischievous, sly Eros. “Chinois!”, the Frenchman 
Calls after my mother, “Chinois!”.

My mother learns to run fast and harder.

At twelve, there is no larger 
Threat to her life than a man. He does not

Mean well, you and I know it, but que c’est un dur

Métier que d’ être belle femme. Wasn’t that Baudelaire?
Isn’t  it is no one’s fault but hers,

She is so beautiful—isn’t that the way

He will tell it in his own small kingdom? A girl
Neither Chinese nor of willing age.

After she loses their pug, the Joneses

Scan their conscience. She is conscientious,
Mrs. Jones, when she tells my mother

Thank you, darling, but no, there’s no

Further service required. You can go.