his filial piety moved heaven

I say I grew up
in the pretty part
of New Jersey. Green
out every window.
August rubbing together
its wings as I fell asleep
I can’t breathe in
the scent of our backyard
and not shut my eyes.

Back then, when you asked for help,
I wanted elephants to push
the mulch wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow
and birds to do the weeding, but heaven
was unmoved. I know I looked away
before saying yes. Why did you
say nothing? Were you afraid
of everything you were told
about raising an American child?
Did you think of your own mother,
some memory I’ll never know?

Today I spread mulch barehanded
even though I should wear gloves. I lean
into the smell. I’m a thousand miles away
so I call and ask how far apart
to sow the daikon, how I’ll know when
to harvest (when the leaf is longer
than your hand), when to add
the chilis so the braise
turns out like yours.