Cigar smoke clings to my sprawled hair,
and blue pack mules carry
the luggage under my eyes,
squeezed closer to my nose
by the vice of my two hands.
I sit down at this glass table
and stare at my shaking knees.
My socks plant in the hard wood,
white cacti in the empty desert,
thirsty for that summer storm
that folds the horizon
and scatters the timid vultures.
I can’t look at the swollen belly,
of the 16 year old who wielded
destiny like a toy in her fist,
because her hunger to see the world
is a plate fit for two.
Her jeans became elastic bands,
as belly rings became a bulge.
The mirror became a place of memory,
and denial. The pictures of smiles,
the tight fitting clothes:
those years were all packed
away in boxes,
because her own closet
made her cry.
Maternity was not fit
for this mona lisa.