watching my mother sleep

mother your eyes are open books from all the lessons you have endured
                                                                                                   and perhaps enjoyed.
some days you will fingerprint this world with derision.
                                i now, 19 years, am sort of whole.
i unfold myself, see my lengths and my curves
and wonder how you grew me.
                   soft and new, our bodies concentric circles.
                                                   you dream of weird things.
i never know which bouquet to buy you.
i never know which colour you truly are.
                     your eyes talk of the day you have had and so you go to sleep.
i hear your pulse when you tuck me under your shoulder.
i smell your heart heaving when i cry.
my tears absolve; you wash me down with words
                            and change me as though i were two again.
me and my flesh muddy from all the same lessons you have endured,
                                                                                                    and perhaps enjoyed.
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