I still don’t understand why my mother insists on eating meals at the dining room table
But I’m starting to realize why she likes windows in the kitchen, above the sink
Maybe there’s a piece of me-
Chipped corners on the granite countertop
(Where my teeth took a beating at ten)-
Carrying an overwhelming fear of being left out
Maybe, I am like my mother
And she is like me.
I can’t hear her calling out,
But she’s present in the spice rack and the memorized cookie recipe in my phone-
I’ve taken up her affinity for long articles and paranoid monologues,
But I’m struggling in keeping with her veracious consumption of innocence paperback novels
Maybe all her words were wisdom
And I just am foolish child
Maybe, I am like my mother
And she is like me.