You come from transient men.

Men who join the priesthood without warning

and run away to Florida and sell houses that weren’t theirs

but you come from women who are solid.

Women who fold their arms and

stare at you like Washington stared at the Delaware

like you are just something to be crossed

women you don’t talk back to

who stop at the grocery store after a funeral

who sew their own clothes and

keep leftovers for months to be stewed on some anxious winter evening

Women who tell you who you are

leaving you with the feeling

that you did something wrong.

All the recanting in the world

could not repent for the sin

of trying to correct them.

You are starting to look like your mother

Your features are carved by the same hand

Your nose is the same bridge; your eyes are the same river

Your fingers are the same half-closed drawbridges.

One day she notices your shorn hair

and your bare eyes and she says

Are you trying to turn yourself into a boy?

She says you have grown sullen, rebellious, dishonest.

But she does not see how the bones of your face

have grown strong as her own.

All of your apologies are backward glances

they are checking for monsters in the dark

they are stockpiling canned corn

they are knitting a suit of armor out of steel wool

they are whispering in the darkness

          so quietly

          so still

          your voice trembles, a fawn that does not know how to return to the forest

I will write down all your apologies

inscribe them in ebony ink and encircle them in gold leaf

bind them with red leather and velvet.

I’ll deliver them by hand to your mother’s feet,

so that she will know how you love her.