Poetry by Amy Liu
When māma used to ask me to sign papers,
I’d drop my Chinese middle name in signatures
and whisper it to myself.
When māma used to pack me leftovers,
I’d hurl them into cafeteria trash
and curl up in hollow Tupperware containers once full.
When māma used to tell me I was pretty,
I’d laugh and cry in the mirror because
of the Eurocentric beauty standards they fed me instead.
But now, I stand.
Back against the willow, lotus feet grounded in soil,
reclaiming the love I lost.