My Mother, My Mirror, My Knife
At four, I belly laughed through a 90s workout.
She glistened sweat through it.
I knead her soft stomach, as only
children can, curl into it. Her shame is my home.
She blames me for the muffin top spilling over jeans.
I am too young to know why muffins are so awful.
Driving home, she pulls into the dairy queen, or burger king.
A special treat. I beg for sticky ice cream down my chin
and she warns that youthful indulgence will punish
with waning metabolisms.
Waves crash the man-made beach, sand sticking to
sunscreen, sticking to skin. Without, I’ll end up with freckles
like hers. Constellations across my nose.
Crows feet cutting my eyes. Smile lines
and worry wrinkles. I learn to shrink expression.
Drape stomach rolls in forgiving fabrics.
In middle school, insecurity drips sweat. Three hours daily,
then homework. Weekend bike rides and logging calories.
Less, less, less. Sharpie-dash lines where the knife
should glide. Carve a slim jaw, higher cheekbones.
Two oranges of stomach fat, shaped into supple breasts.
Curve from ribs to sickle hips. Shave down the thigh.
Nightly crisis – stand naked in the shower’s fog. Pull skin taut.
Call to the knife. My face is hers. Her faults are my mirror.
Her words shape my knife. I trace its edge.