When I was young
I was my mother.
We sat together in June
and summer shoes.
We sat near open windows,
sucking, cracking, throwing sunflower
seeds all around the kitchen table,
tongues burning from all the salt,
accordion brows over everything,
two twisted, contrary positions;
her and I, our bodies talked this way,
In the daylight, she would inspect my
face and the quiet way I moved around.
I was not as she imagined,
I was not ashamed of this.
In the night, I spent
my energy resisting her fetid stares,
so sharp against my nostrils, my skin,
so persistent in the pursuit of my tears.
In the kitchen, I watched her
stand near the stove,
nearly every limb crossed- just the one
crooked right arm, holding a
Ash grew like dandelions from her fingers
and I sat still, still mesmerized.
I wanted our summers,
I wanted our language,
I wanted to be despised sometimes.
I wanted to be her salted seed,
her crooked limb,
because there were days, I
know, she was glad that I was hers.
enter the discussion: