Mother’s Daughter

The night sky drapes above our heads

and crystal stars are speckling. I love you

he says, words brushing against

my cheek. It’s that time of year. Bras and fishnets,

girls’ bare bones pecked on, if

they’re lucky, counting lips

& losing their mother’s name.

There is a shoebox in the closet

of a deceased. White dust,

faded ink, bus tickets

& birth certificates: I am my mother’s daughter.

That means mother’s new journey, that means

you are an American now.

…hush…hush…until you are a woman

who has faced the bearings of these laws.

Who has faced womanhood of this country, then

speak, speak your voice vertically back

            into the heavy bagged sky of white stars, and

pray, pray the dawn’s early light

            comes with hope and revolution.