The Uncomfortable Truth

“You became your mother
subconsciously,”
my widening hips like to say.
I say to my daughter
 
unconscionably,
“Pick up your shoes.”
I say to my daughter
“Don’t be such a brat.”
 
“Pick up your dishes,”
my mother always said,
“You’re such a brat.”
“I'll never be like you,”
 
I said to my mother
in unhinged decibels.
“Don’t compare me to you,”
my daughter says 
 
in unhinged decibels.
My present re-lives my past.
My daughter asks,
“What was it like?”
 
I presently re-live my past.
I tell her, “You have no idea
what it was like 
to be raised by my mother.”
 
She tells me, “You have no idea
what it’s like 
to be raised by you.
I’d do anything for my daughter.”
 
What’s it like 
to be raised by me? “I ferry you 
everywhere, I’d do anything for you.”
Though I constantly feel lost.
 
My raising? My mother ferried me 
by bus. It was terrifying.
We were constantly lost.
“You hopped onto the motherhood
 
bus. Isn’t it terrifying?”
Say my widening hips. Daughter,
“One day you’ll hop into my skin 
and become your mother.”