On telling my mother it is hard to be her daughter

I stand on the white floor, my feet
Instantly splaying out like the billow of cloth
In a quiet afternoon breeze. Toes swell up,
Just a little, like albino leeches, blood pooling.
Criminal feet, what trespasses have you committed
That you wear your ugliness like a brand?
An arch that rises ponderously, crowned by toes
That never grew up.
You of the perfect feet; a petite, lithe size five
You of the pretty hands, fingers like frozen rain
Ravens for hair, paintings for eyes
Voice like winter sunshine, song like goodbyes.
Mirrors confess no truths; they refuse to lie,
What I saw in them, I saw through your discerning eye.
Who am I and who were you? Why did my arms
End with your palms? Why is my face studded with your eyes?
All those things you ticked off
Long straight nose
Arched eyebrows
Fingers turned up at the tips
Small waist, flat stomach, swelling hips.
How do I find them in my my mirror, Mother
Or how do I find them in yours?
I look into your glass, Mother, but all I saw was you
All I saw was me.

2 thoughts on “On telling my mother it is hard to be her daughter

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