One a mother.
One a daughter.
Both infants together.
Then the embryo detached.
Floating magnets, repelling away.
A symptom of the teenage bomb.
Doors slammed,
Tears shed,
Voices echoed.
I hold out my hand.
We meet again, in the middle.
Through the very aging balm that divided us.
My sun bleached hair darkened, hers greyed.
With it our detachment withered,
A deprived lily, finally receiving water.
A waterfall of clarity emerges.
Reflecting our likeness, cutting our differences with a blade.
We see each other.
First I saw it in her nose and her heart-shaped palm.
Then her crows feet, and when she did a braid.
I’m turning into my mom.
Now I see it in her need for control, once a qualm.
I realize she was unpaid.
For in all her chaos, she is my calm.
Her voice has become my very own psalm.
I am her very own retrograde.
I am turning into my mom.
One a daughter, no longer afraid.
One a mother, no longer betrayed.
I’m turning into my mom.
For in all her chaos, she is my calm.
