I look at her and saw dainty hands gripping an    
  adult’s finger,
Her little mouth singing for the first time—world’s
  sign of life.
I chortle thinking we shared the same shrill cry of
  unconsented
Breath. Now her fingertips know by routine all the
  keys they would press
And her palms—soft and feminine (I buy the same
  hand cream she uses)—
Rarely fatigued in household chores, while my hands
  are burnt and wounded,
Hard and rough ‘round the edges. Our mouths the
  similar absent stories
On the dining table drinking instant noodles soup,
  I see

How her hair is pulled up above her shoulders; the
  afternoon sun,
The scent of soil on her skin, a chorale of
  friends, sneaky attempts to dance
On fiestas with her cousins. My universe is vast
  with book and TV characters
My mind a horizon of imaginative dimensions and situations
I wish happened. Swimming in paper-thin planets
was inherited from her;
My decision to suffer trying to fabricate one came from my dreams that could’ve been
Potential realities. But if I’m honest, the swamp between
us might’ve also contributed

Now it’s a river with such erratic currents, but always the tranquil movement that warns 'bout
Its doubtful deepness. I was led to reach the abyss
  each time
I forget the special way my mother loves me. When I
  was forced to pick up the shards
Of glass under the cooking stove and I bled the
  blood pulsing through her veins.
I found there the apologies. I only then understood
  how wrong it was
Because it blended so well with everything the kids
  and I perceived as right.
Just to grow a little taller interacting with others’ half-full glasses while we glue ours
Back together; so they look like they can be filled
  and can pour from one cup to another

Her fingers are wrinkled
as we resurface the waters. I’m also getting used to their
Caresses. I wouldn’t flinch for all that’s coming is gentle.
I also notice the thinning hair,
Speckle of silver streaks. And despite the seemingly
  ocean of a gap, on the seashore, we
Are connected in the umbilical. In her eyes the
Traces of her youth and how we love the same
Way we are mistreated

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