NaPoWriMo April 2, 2012

For a time my body was her body and that inside of being inside of my body is the counternarrative of our shared history. It happens when I find myself in her gestures. We both pluck errant hairs from our chin with our fingernails. We both trace words nervously on our pants over and over. I keep returning to this notion of being her copy because I once make the future from her. Now that’s ironic or terrifying. And I’m cast loose from seeing tomorrow. It’s a brown, cultural, daughter thing. Strangely though because when I touch my skin, it’s foreign because it’s not hers. I’m getting it there, gusseting it with worry and fat and leaving it ashy with neglect---