心肝宝贝

When my mother told me she loved me,
I thought I needed translation.

Sweetheart? she tried, but shook her head.

I looked it up: darling, baby—
Or word by word: heart, liver, treasure, cowrie.

Precious treasure of the liver. Sweet heart
of the child. A music box, a seashell, a dumpling, a blanket,
a pair of cupped hands, a cradle, a womb—

the heart, the liver, the baby
a box for safekeeping, but

is there anything safe about a baby?

Xinganbaobei, she repeated, drawing a circle
at her chest, opening it up, showing me
myself nestled inside, as vital as any viscera:

in me, of me, she said, my sweet baby,
the child of my heart. You know?

And didn’t I?