I’m not going to force your name––

Mother → Mommy → Eomoni → 어머니 → Eomma →  엄마––

because I never called you

that. I never called you

anything. For all your shifts 

 

you were the same, twisting every verb

into –ing (I am telling you, I am not saying)

when it already happened. You are watching TV.

I watched the ash from your cigarette 

flutter onto the back of my hand. You are slapping

it away. My skin scales off, disappearing in shag carpet.

 

Tuesday night, your clothes shrugged off

as soon as you entered. Just in

your bra after shifting 

at the diner: a 20 dollar

tip flapping, my tongue 

in an imaginary language. You were saying

I’m so sexy, I’m so sexy, 

not knowing what it meant. 

I never told you––

I wanted you to keep saying it.