Mama, when I brush teeth with strawberry colgate
I think of the baby tooth pulled out
with bare hands, kept in a jewelry box
stuffed between:
light roast instant coffee breath, empty
cigarette boxes, rusty lighters from when
you were thirty-one and had me.
I am your youngest child, your most difficult
creation. I caused the streaks of gray
in your hair and worry lines spreading across
your once smooth forehead. I am here for you
to live vicariously through me.
Mama, please listen when I say that I am afraid
of moving away in less than one year
leaving you with only a tooth,
and the scarf you made that I outgrew at five,
the pansies I pressed in your notebook,
the cactus I gave you for mother’s day,
the french press I made you buy because
instant coffee doesn’t taste good to teenage girls.
I hope you understand, Mama, that I
am still three years old at my first day of preschool
collecting tears in your palms
not ready to leave you.
I think of the baby tooth pulled out
with bare hands, kept in a jewelry box
stuffed between:
light roast instant coffee breath, empty
cigarette boxes, rusty lighters from when
you were thirty-one and had me.
I am your youngest child, your most difficult
creation. I caused the streaks of gray
in your hair and worry lines spreading across
your once smooth forehead. I am here for you
to live vicariously through me.
Mama, please listen when I say that I am afraid
of moving away in less than one year
leaving you with only a tooth,
and the scarf you made that I outgrew at five,
the pansies I pressed in your notebook,
the cactus I gave you for mother’s day,
the french press I made you buy because
instant coffee doesn’t taste good to teenage girls.
I hope you understand, Mama, that I
am still three years old at my first day of preschool
collecting tears in your palms
not ready to leave you.