Mother and Daughter
Briseida Esparza
My daughter makes me want to put on lipstick,
dance on ballerina toes,
and curl my hair.
The pink one Mommy. That’s my favorite.
So, I paint my bitten nails and put on a smile.
She wakes me up with a hug
and a series of pulls towards the kitchen.
Pancakes and syrup
with strawberry kisses on the side.
As usual:
and tangled hair.
She twirls her small frame between time
and in phases—
a blur of isolated innocence
and beautiful corruption
Her portrait, still, only for a moment—
for I grow old
and she grows up.
Which one should I wear, Mom?
The pink one, Eva. That’s my favorite.
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