Melissa Fite Johnson

IT’S NOT MY MOTHER’S FAULT

she cast insecurities
onto me, her only copy—

brightly, You and I both
need to lose 20 pounds.

Too tall, both of us;
women should be folded

wings. Never go bowling
and admit your shoe size.

When did I stop slipping
from the bathroom

before the steam cleared?
When did I first feel glad

to see myself, a Polaroid
born from shower mist?

Now I tuck my hair behind
my ear, gently, finally gently.

I hold my mother’s hands
so she can’t shield her belly

with her crossed arms, an action
a little like giving herself a hug.