Poetry

and I think I’ve done it. / I’ve become a flower.

She knows his face his arms his eyes / So well she almost forgives herself

and she stands in front of the mirror again, repeating

good moms will raise kids who are / confident, the kind who try new things / without being afraid to fail because, to them, / failing is just falling

in all her sepia glory she’d know her lost tongue, / where her people came from, her way back home