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
Now there is this other word: