I was very young when I was young.
All eyes.
Mirrors that consumed
the world.
Your mother told you
I would have to be careful.
She meant with boys,
men, eventually. You told me,
the first time it was a compliment,
it grew with me into a warning.
I don’t know if she knew I’d be pretty.
You didn’t.
I’m not blaming you.
I know she never let you forget
she saw you as a disappointing mirror.
I try not to blame me.
I will try not to apologize for calling myself
pretty because I do not think it’s the why.
(But maybe I would not want a pretty daughter.)
A piece of fruit
dangling, nearly snapping
from its branch, wants to be eaten,
surely. Could not be meant to fall
untouched, dissolve,
slowly decay until it meshes
with the deep earth and becomes
new life.
I was raised to be so polite.
But I am a body, which asserts itself
in blood, bile, salt, and tangy sweet.
Rude flavors.
I think you knew she meant
I cannot fade into dirt.
Nina Smilow is a writer of all genres. Her work can be found in Black Fox Literary Magazine, Porridge Magazine, Pacifica Literary Review, and Literary Mama. She is a graduate of Sarah Lawrence’s MFA and splits her time between Portland, OR and New York.
