This is the moon: the moonlight,
light of the moon, gives perfect vision.
The words glistened, on the cake;
they are engraved on the cake,
which is in the shape of flower,
or roundness of moon,
which is in the color of ivory,
the color of moon

My mother kneads dough on a floured board;
she asks, moon cake or dumpling?
She already knows the answer.
My father minces the meat;
he knows, too, that it's better that we cook dumplings tonight,
else I'll refuse to eat.

I hate how the moon cake tastes:
the kernels of sunflower seeds,
sesame seeds, walnut, sweetmeat, peel of orange
the mix of lard and refined rose sugar—
in fact I had to look the names up in the cookbook.
In fact few makes it at home, the process being complex.
The fullness of its filling makes me full
and it's too much for me—
I never eat more than a mouthful.

I nibble on the crusty skin,
knowing as time goes by it absorbs liquids in the air,
becoming soft and soggy, no longer crisp.
You won't want it then, and you will hate it:
the skin soft but the stuffing false and hard.
A boy told me he would mail me one,
to the States if possible.
I imagine, next year on the same day,
in a place that’s not my home,
ripping open a large box
secured with ribbons and stuffed with sponges—
I would be false and hard as the moon cake if I refuse
to eat
the moon