Written by Amy Lin
my mother refused to teach me how to flay a pear from head to toe until the day the sun said i was thirteen. it was what her own mother did back when she was me back in yunnan. but after thirteen, she would still smack the knife from my palm & insist: nono, someday there is no one left to do for you. then her hands, small enough to fit into my fist, would emerge with a ceramic cradle sweet sliced flesh. one day i came home, trembling with good news & she beamed & she poked her gift between my teeth. i wiped sticky juice from my chin. two years later, someday peeled away like the pear skin i flay now.
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Amy Lin (she/her) is a Chinese-American writer from New Jersey. When she is not writing, you can find her enjoying word puzzles, painting, and eating home-cooked meals. Her poems are featured or forthcoming in Rust & Moth, The Serulian, and elsewhere. You can also find her on Twitter @amylwrites.