Wednesday, January 8, 2014

I Wear My Mother's Pants


She doesn’t want their shape anymore,

Their size anymore.

I find to my surprise that they

Suit me just fine.

My mother’s pants


She is this old, bent woman

With legs like thick tree trunks, immovable, dead weight

I am young still, moving, vibrant

She is crooked and weak.

Yet I look into the mirror at my mother’s pants

How they fit me just fine,

How the bumps and curves and all the

                        places where I learn about pain

How they fit me just fine.


There is this word that I am becoming now:

There was freedom, before. I was

Becoming that.

Now there is this other word:



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