Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Casi’s Face

No comments

Sometimes, I take your features for granted,
the constant shape of your eyes.

When you were born, everyone said you looked
more like your father, though I insisted your chin was mine.

Tonight while we wait for the macaroni to soften,
we dance in the kitchen to the symphony of a priest.

As I recuperate from an ungraceful spin --
a second stilled in the light of your face --

I see me, but taller; me but prettier,
and with your father's chin.

Born in Mexico City, Mexico, Gabriela Anaya Valdepeña, mother of a 16-year-old girl, is a poet and teacher living in San Diego. Her first book of poems, Exaggerated Gender Signals, was recently published by Darkness Visible Books.

More from

Comments are now closed for this piece.