She has one knee pulled to her chest,
Her face downcast.

My biological host stole the sun.
I can’t bring myself to call her mother,
But I’ve always had a good imagination and will try.

I understand now, I told her.
Hardened eyes kissed by time,
She’d seen it all.

My human mother raised a mirror.

Do you see me?
I asked the statue, but ivy armor muted her.

My mother’s heels stabbed into the dirt for the family Christmas photo.
It was winter; the stone was cold.

Come spring, chlorophyllic stains wept down her chest.
I’d feel her breasts and pretend

The blood pulsing in my palm was a real-life heartbeat.
Do you love me?

Come summer, I’d peel leaves off her,
Make mother-daughter necklaces with daisies for diamonds.

I painted watercolor on wood the summer of “Camp Mommy”
And the sunflower disappeared before she could see it. Those hard eyes of hers.

Do you love me? Look.
She offered nothing.

Come autumn, I’d sucked the sweet from honeysuckles
And tucked the shriveled blooms behind her tall ears hoping stone could smell.

I could hear my mother coming from a mile away,
Those heels, the humming.

Leaves soon bristled into brown confetti.
I liked to think the statue’s birthday must have been in the fall, like mine.

My mother induced me early so she could fit into a dress.
Thirty years stretched and my statue still patiently waits in the shade of an oak tree.

Half of her face is gray and gritty with age.
She grew old, naturally, forgoing softness for longevity.

Still, my mother looks for a mirror.
She gives nothing.

– Brandyce Ingram