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It's empty now, the faux-ming vase,
but it still smells faintly of ash.
I ash and stare at its face,
a stylized portrait of a woman,
properly subservient, tiny feet
at her master's heels. Father's ashes
over the Mississippi, but mother's
in the faux ming vase that was their
wedding gift, from her mother in China.
Don't drink, it's stupid and
American. Study, do you want to grow up
to work in Burger Hut, study.
Her hands, yellowing under the nail polish,
buttoning up her shirt. The room is dark,
late afternoon whispering in
between the shades, and her picture
hangs on the wall, stern-lipped
as if it could say with its eyes,
why the fuck did you flush my ashes,
Phuong, this is stupid thing, disrespectful,
American thing to do. And don't smoke,
do you want to grow up to be dead?