Not a chip

I stand on the white floor, my feet

Instantly splaying out like the billow of cloth 

In a quiet afternoon breeze. Toes swell up,

Just a little, like albino leeches, blood pooling.

What harm have my feet done, I wonder

That they wear their ugliness like a brand.

An arch that rose reluctantly, crowned by toes

That never grew up.

You of the perfect feet; a petite, lithe size five

You of the pretty hands, fingers like frozen rain

Ravens for hair, paintings for eyes

Voice like winter sunshine, song like goodbyes.

Mirrors confess no truths; they refuse to lie,

What I saw in them, I saw through your discerning eye. 

Who am I and who were you? Why did my arms 

End with your palms? Why is my face studded with your eyes?

All those things you ticked off

Long straight nose 

Arched eyebrows

Fingers turned up at the tips

Small waist, flat stomach, swelling hips. 

I look for them in our mirror, then I looked in mine.

Then I looked in yours, mother. And all I saw was you

All I saw was me. Telling you how difficult it was to be your daughter.