Giselle den Breems

I thought it might be a molar, something lost and crucial
and undoubtedly feminine            reminding me
of her                 when she said she lost something.
It wasn’t, but just as easily—
We try to blame moments, collect evidence,
but— We try to blame our mothers.
Maternal heirlooms dislodged and discarded,
scattered, shattered in the dirt. We don’t admit
how sorry we are. My body hasn’t been yours for almost
two decades, but the look in your eyes—
I was smaller than a cherry when you found me out.
This summer, I’ll be better. Everything you gave me
              you gave me everything.
We’ll eat cherries together; I’ll make it up to you.
I know that’s not the way it works. I wish—
When she shows me the pictures, I see her
in her mother’s face.          You were young
and lived it all through a body so close to mine.
We collect the pieces we can, clean off the dirt.
We don’t try to glue them back
together             held so tight they dent our palms.
It’s our turn. We do it with
your smile and eyes, the freckles that faded, the hair
that darkened.      I thought I saw a molar in the dirt, but
it turned out to be a cherry stone from last summer.