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---