We are strangers
at first glance.
I can only claim her
by the shoes she buys,
extra wide, and the thick
wrinkled knuckles
that are her father's,
and his father's too.
On a late July sunset,
we are drinking cheap beer,
and knowing I'm unhappy
she talks instead
about her dreams last night,
waking up cold and sweating
with clenched fists,
and having to wash the sheets
twice a week.
Between sips of beer
and laughter, she's
telling me she's changing,
growing older with me,
and with more than just
life to fear.
Mother, you need to know,
inside, I am scared of being alone,
skeptical of my beauty,
never satisfied with "enough".
Mother, I know your routine,
I am in the bathroom too,
each night, before sleep,
with my knobby fingers,
meticulously scrubbing
my small pink feet,
careful to remove all traces
of time passing.