This poem is for my mother. And for yours. And for every woman who has ever been called only in relation to someone else.

Women

She holds her photographsthe way water slips through fingertipsknowing it’ll leaveher embraceonce again

in it, she wore red, sometimes a soft bluecolors that never seemed to fit her skin againher sister laughs, beside the whole familythe way families dobefore life began disrupting them

I watch her eyestravel to that placethe small laugh, deep sighthe way her breath followsto the edge of a timewhere I was not born yet

she was thinner thenskinny wearing bones differentlyunaware of what they were yet to carryshe says she was more beautifuland then she turns to meand asks

“Am I still pretty?”

she waits for a answerI say “yes”the way sons dowhen the truth is too large to handle

They taught girls earlyhow to devote themselvesmake themselvesinto a giftpink ribbon, and allwrap their voices in soft edgesuntil they fit in a drawerno one would ever open

handed a measuring tapebefore she could speaktold her to hold it against herselfevery morningfor the rest of her life

be good enough, be quiet enoughfit the space, they decided a woman should occupyshrink, become smaller firstspeak second, or not at all

Her body borrowedfor childrenher future loanedto a societythat never learnedto appreciate her

her name is still herstechnicallybut the light wraps differently around itwhen you’re a wife, mother, daughter in-lawcalled only in relationto someone else

and yetshe stands there

the woman that stood in the photographI see her sometimesin the way she laughswhen she forgetsthe world is watching

in the way she singseven though her voice catches

as if even her tonguehas been caughtin this borrowed future

in the way the colors reach for heruntil she puts them back on a rackthen sometimeson the happy daysshe’ll take them home anyway

They couldn’t stealwhat she never showed themshe kept it locked awayin a placewithout her husbandin a placeno silencecould ever legislate

she grew up to realizeshe’d always fall short of proving herself

she holds her photographsshe is mourning, yes

but she recognizes someonewho is stillforeveralive

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