my mother is a painter 

she makes of me the image of herself 

i am quick to anger, mouth like a bent riverbank 

and i can see, her eyes poke and prod at my face disapprovingly, purple blue without a second glance 

i am a daughter, second-born, round-faced and eyes straight like my father’s and she can tell 

she paints me, with gentle words and sharp fingers, as sweet and obedient as she must be 

as patient and tough-skinned as she has been 

but i am a daughter, second-born, round-faced and eyes straight like my father’s and she can tell 

My fingers pinch your cold ear like a coin 

Copper, by the smell of it 

I make a wish 

I strain my eyes for the stars 

They seem to move 

I make a wish 

My collarbone thumps against the whorl of your thumb 

Metal buttons dig into my hip 

I make a wish 

The earth stinks 

I make a wish 

The bench creaks 

I make a wish 

My hands can’t stop shaking I make a wish I make a wisshh 

the window is slightly ajar, and i am deathly afraid of bugs coming in 

there is a gentle glow from orange-ish streetlights and speeding car headlights 

my mother, still and asleep beside me, is cold 

my stomach aches, growls with hunger 

like this i cant help but wonder 

is this practice? 

for a world, inevitable, where she is not with me 

where the window is slightly ajar for a sweet breeze at a solemn occasion 

and a bug crawls on her limp hand 

where a gentle glow from orange-ish candle flames burn against my heavy eyelids 

where she is asleep, despondent, cold, and i growl with hunger. 

this is perfect practice, 

as in my head aches and my eyes water.