the daughter who is your mother
wears a face younger than yours. she wrecks your idea of everything you thought mystical and spellbound, like the holy. I see the homeless man on Hawthorne, dragging his dirt, radiant in another life. she’s an old soul her teachers say. rumi said, there is no proof of the soul.
you crawl into bed, beleaguered by another average day, like she did at three, still needing you. your thoughts turn to slits, turn to long arms, not holding you, gently.