It seemed a powerful thing my mother being a chili picker
withstanding the burn of broken chilies hotly licking her fingers,
stomaching the only meal for the day: pork rinds and watered rice,
a warm can of Pepsi, a bite of a Thai chili plucked along the way,
the summer heat to melt the rest of her being, the day ending with
440 lbs, her pocket stuffed with $66 in cash.

In late evenings, she'd remove from underneath
the carpet flap of the bedroom floor, a thick white envelope
(not so mysterious), my little self waiting for her
to count, to look over, eyes instructing. I had never thought
her lonely for the act—perhaps when it seemed her body was
her only friend, the way she spoke to those hands unlike with me.
I'd watch her undress, think only of her torso, how tired
she looked, how much I loved her, the nightly ritual
in the bathroom—talking to her hands, the sound of
running water to mute the conversation.

​

-Khaty Xiong, 2013