after dinnertime, we both hunch over 
the wet sink, washing the dishes. & we
wind around our wordless wrists a garland of foam
of mother-son synergy. 

you are slightly faster than me, as usual, 
so the sea of porcelain
is always higher on my side. then, 
your scrubbing hands are left empty
when you left your parents, for overseas, 
bringing nothing, but blistered skin, & imported sinology.

but even you admit: i am more scrupulous, 
carefully cupping your broken dreams 
without killing it again, & without
making deep cuts into your skin.

we learn not to discuss what is right
but we can always agree that dinner was delicious.