Personal Effects
My mother keeps parts of me under her bed.
Parts she gave; parts
she took back.
Folded into tissues
and tucked inside envelopes
like little wage packets
are twists of my hair, my teeth,
my bracelet from the hospital –
things I never asked for,
whose capture
I didn’t resist, and above which,
dark nights, she tosses and turns.
I don’t miss them,
since they have been replaced
with new hair, new teeth,
and I could buy myself a bracelet
any time. But when I see her sometimes
seeing me
smiling for a photo
or tightening my ponytail
or taking off my watch and placing it on the windowsill
I wonder if she’s considering
claiming other relics
that one day could remind us both who we are.