1

My earliest memories of my mother
are sunburned. Pink cheeks.
Braids. Dirt under fingernails.

2

Before me, she was already self-conscious
about her stomach. Then I was made and I was too stubborn
to turn upside down inside her and they had to
cut her open and pull me out.

3 

I learned how to put on lipstick
by watching her get ready for work
in the morning.

I learned how to criticize myself
by watching her cluck at the mirror,
swatting her hair down like a bad dog.

4

I am sorry for the white worm
I left across your middle.

5

She believes my sisters and I chose her
to be our mother. Handpicked her
from a basket of others.

This one. This one will teach us the most.

6

Learn to cherish this vessel,
the tired music of the body.

Let the skin be witness.
To grow. To grow.

7

I am standing in front of a mirror.
I am insulting myself out of habit
and suddenly my mother stops me,
“don’t say that, Sierra. If you think you are ugly,
you are creating that ugliness inside you.”

8

I am thankful for the bed in your belly.
I was a weary traveler.

9

My mother has a birthmark
the size of a grapefruit on her hip.
It is red and exploding.

I can only imagine
when she undressed for my father
the first time, it was like
watching the sun come up.

- Sierra DeMulder