Sometimes when I stare at a mirror,
My mother stares back at me.
The phenomena of being a child is to grapple
With being an amalgamation of the people
Who came before.
My visage and body were grown, molded,
Handed down along my mother’s genetic wiring,
Straight into my cells.
Best adorned with the pearl drop accent of elegance,
Fine-boned, petite and lean,
My fingers most at home delicately lifting the stem of a wine glass.
My spirit is a wildling,
A distorted echo of the sea,
Formed from multitudes of threads-
People, environments, things I’ve touched along the way.
It yearns to press its’ face to the wind,
Sink those fingers into the soil and mud,
Relish the feeling of grit against skin.
My face is meant for gentle smiles and secrets,
But my soul cracks at it to burst open,
Mouth parted so my teeth can rend.
I am always stitching myself up from injuries wrought by
The divergence.
I wear it different,
But occasionally I glimpse her face coming through my skin.
And I pause as I stare,
Searching
The planes of our cheekbones,
The curve of our jaw.
If we should divide this shared territory,
Where should I stake my claim:
At the middle,
Right between the eyes?
I wonder what she feels looking at me,
This mirror turned alien,
With her face,
That came from her womb.
I wonder if she ever despairs over the unknowable.
“My children are all over the world,” she says proudly,
But I wonder how much she gave
And how much was stolen,
Fine print in a contract
She had not thought to read.
I remember her gently taking hangers from me at the mall,
Laughing at my ambition,
Then still cloaked under my youth and naivete.
“That’s not for you.”
I wonder how she feels now that
I am no longer young,
And she is no longer the only arbiter
Of her face.
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