My mother is the lovely women at the party.
I lurch among them dazzled.
One leans down to greet me, offering
two moons of flesh. Mine,
I say, wanting to suckle.
She picks me up and laughs, her lips a gleaming ribbon,
like the one you pull to close a pouch,
her mouth full of moving pink and little teeth.
I can see she is bigger and more real than I am,
and I want to be her—beautiful long legs,
slippery with nylon, dangling earrings, and nimble hands.
To her my babiness—words and teeth just made—
was most wonderful of her selves.
Her own she barely glanced at in the mirror
when she put on the sexy dress and mouth.
Cheek to cheek with her newest granddaughter
she still talks of my infant charms,
for I was the first darling of my first love.
At thirteen I want her to explain how I came
from her rich depths. My mother is the sitting room
with nothing out of place where you can’t understand
the stillness. The carpet is thick, everything upholstered,
your footsteps silent. There’s no mirror.
You can’t see yourself.
Ingrid Hughes
