National Poetry Month
“All the Things You Are, Are Mine”
By Bridgette Brados, MFA candidate studying poetry in the Helen Zell Writers’ Program
I must have known my mother, only
a version of her, but it’s all alphabet soup now.
In the encyclopedia of my life, she is page ii: a lesson
on diamonds. I am pregnant with diamonds, celestial,
cavernous abdomen, uncut. Etched on tin table,
an image of endless birth: daughter parting mother
parting daughter onward down the line, though I like
to imagine a closed circuit, a current connecting her
to me, through my eyes. They say I have her eyes,
her legs, her arms, and face. I am an anagram
disassembling myself, becoming mother,
full of sparkle, a rendition I can recognize.
The letters of her name can spell home,
rot, tore, more, me. I could continue,
but I will spare you. I don’t suppose you know
the spelling of her song, a nightly watch full of melody.
Through her I see me sleeping. A docile, forgetful baby,
inhaling her song.
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