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

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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.


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