E V E R Y O T H E R
skip generations like
buying generic and wearing bathrobes.
for me it’s hearing the story of your birth
and pillowing your face into your mother’s
leftover skin from when you were in her.
my mother’s skin is soft like mine but smooth
the undoubted marks from my birth invisible on her body.
together we guess at my birth and that woman,
who gave us each other, and passed on my strong body
so that my children could stare at my smiling skin,
raspberry the crinkles and wonder at the lines
and know that the curves were from their
weight entering and leaving mine.