If I tell my mother she is the sky,
what I really mean is that I’m the pond
my father built her. What I mean is
I watch the way she rises and sets
in herself. I mirror every cloud
that mars her features. I darken
to match her windy movements.
What I’m saying is my surface
catches her light, but when she
grows overcast with gray,
my entire face disappears.
I’m saying the two of us
are always facing each other
and wincing away at the same
time. I’ve absorbed into myself
every color she’s taught me
When I try to reveal my
drowned leaves to her,
she can’t see through
her own reflection.
What I’m trying to say is
I can’t stop taking
her shape.
Racine Watson is a graduate of the University of Nebraska at Omaha, where she studied Creative Writing within the UNO’s Writer’s Workshop. Her work includes fiction, creative non-fiction and poetry. Her creative-nonfiction essay, “The Five Ways I Left” is forthcoming in the 13th Floor literary journal, 2022 edition.
