I’ve been wearing
my mother’s skin.
I’m not sure when
I started, exactly.
my mother’s skin.
I’m not sure when
I started, exactly.
It’s a hand-me-down
from her mother,
and hers before her,
worn-in, stretched
from her mother,
and hers before her,
worn-in, stretched
and a little creased
(none of us like ironing).
It doesn’t fit quite right,
either. My mother,
(none of us like ironing).
It doesn’t fit quite right,
either. My mother,
petite and slender,
would always complain
when I borrowed her jumpers
in my teens. I’ve tried
would always complain
when I borrowed her jumpers
in my teens. I’ve tried
taking it off, but somehow
I always wake up with it
back on, catching myself
off-guard in the mirror.
I always wake up with it
back on, catching myself
off-guard in the mirror.
Sometimes, I wonder
if she might want it
back, but then I notice
she is wearing
if she might want it
back, but then I notice
she is wearing
her mother’s skin,
and probably can’t
take it off,
either.
and probably can’t
take it off,
either.
