© 2023 by MCLA Spires. 

Spitting Image

April 30, 2018

I share my mother’s cuticles,

her calloused hands and round knuckles that crack

every morning like chimes on a clock.

 

I carry my mother’s ankles around

under the cuffs of my jeans;

I lug the weight of her full-bodied torso,

stuffed with arteries and bones and vessels

filled with blood to keep the whole thing

running.

 

I have my mother’s varicose veins,

her webbed wrinkles,

the lines on her cheeks.

I bear the bumpy skin at the base of her wrist

where a sweater rubbed its wiry wool

against her pale skin there.

 

Her cheeks patch up red

as the blood under her skin blooms

in splotchy watercolor art—

she gave me her face for a canvas.

 

I open my mouth to speak

and her words spill out like

gravel and wet sand

between my lips.

 

I feel her in every notch

of our spine.

Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Please reload

Featured Posts

Wandering Walls

March 5, 2018

1/8
Please reload

Recent Posts

April 25, 2019

April 25, 2019

May 7, 2018

May 7, 2018

May 7, 2018

Please reload

Archive
Please reload

Search By Tags