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the way it works :: rosalia moffett

by on March 12, 2017

is not that I am half her and half
my father, quite, so it’s not true
that I am destined to half of her

battalion of doctors—
or exactly half her body’s refusal
to go through this world assembled

in a way anyone understands. My brothers
don’t question this, that they are separate
as moons. They don’t look

like her. They orbit, tall, black-haired. They reach,
lift things down from the top cupboards.
Me, though. Who am I but her

creation, clicking around in all her old
high heels? Listen, who knows
where this comes from. And you, you,

must’ve inherited your brain
from your father.
But I have her arm
in mine so she won’t stumble because

that’s what the medicine does, undoes
the balance calibrators. I hold tight. I am careful,
as we walk, to watch where she puts her feet

which means I am looking at our legs
stepping in time with each other,
like someone next to a mirror.


From → poems

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