My Mothers Daughter
Im curling a backward C into your side, the way
I used to, Saturday mornings before you remarried
and I learned to share. Chewie chuffs, so I bury
my face in her fur, and you dont see me flinch
when you say, Youre built like a 12-year-old boy;
soon the only people chasing you will be women.
Swaddled in heavy blue velveteen, skin still moist
and smelling of Midnight Pomegranate, I beautify
my reflection, until you come down to make your
voice heard. I wouldnt even feel comfortable
introducing you to my friends. The only sound
left: the sizzle of ceramic burning my hair perfect.
"This poem is called My Mother's Daughter and I hope my mother never reads it."