Generations, Untethered / A Kind of Mother:
I think my mother is me.
I think I am her mother too.
I have her eyes, her face,
her hair, her smile.
My mother has my love
where she did not have hers.
What pronged tongue,
cigarette-stained skin, sunken eyes
like rotting wood. Sometimes,
responsibility is a kind of burden
maybe best not worn.