Tribe

She is the river
that wets the lips of the garden
or a bird who prefers swimming to flying.

Her blue veins grow into new arms.
She teaches herself—or at least, she tries—
to be a mother to no one; no one to serve,
no one to dote on.

She can’t tell if she loathes her body more today, or tomorrow—
and what will she do about the man
who has made, of her, a tribe.

She listens to the dictation of female ghosts
who shave her eyebrows, and paint new lines
in watercolor.

Even her eyelids, wet with sadness,
she wants to stretch sideways.

In the morning, she stands before the mirror,
ironing and folding her belly fat.

My mother is trying to figure out
who she used to be
before she became ours.