I am an only child.
My mother does not stay
long enough to feast on my father’s
fists. When I look in the mirror, I bare
my mother’s teeth. My eyes, twins
glowing green ivy, barren of poison
roots. You will not find me in a sea of people
pleasers—I am raising a forest of chosen
family trees. My mother unfurls,
unlearns the language of obedience.
She conspires with other disentangled
mothers, and I am raised by soft-handed
palm readers who un-stain me worrier,
weave me warrier as they trace the threads
of my skin. My sisters are imaginary.
When we play tea party no one slices
their finger. We dance loose-limbed
and unscarred. No one gets called
into the elementary school principal’s
office to talk to a nice lady asking
about the origin of bruises. I am not afraid
of voices wearing thunder capes.
When my imaginary sister sends me
an imaginary text about an imaginary
baby, I am happy—not scared
of who they will take after.
