A broken bottle
a discarded hairbrush
totems within totems
effigies of past and present
a light knock on the door
she’s wearing a French halter dress
her ankles are slim like my mother’s
she’s not my mother
her skin is brown like my mother’s
she’s not my mother
her black hair is curled like my mother’s
she’s not my mother
her perfume speaks of wanting passion
it belies the faux expression on her face
attempting trickery
she bends to me and pretends to be enchanted
by childhood photos
they are not her photos to touch
with her careful, manicured pink nails
a color my mother always hated
she had more style in her little finger
the one with dupuytren’s contracture
more a question mark than deformity
it didn’t stop her playing the piano
carving her place in my father’s heart
and this imposter? Flicking her way into our life
like a cheap fan you buy, because you are sweating
I want to tell her, using grown up words
I may be six, but I know what she’s up to
with her shifting glances toward my handsome father
with her endearing crossing of espadrilled feet
if she touches my mother’s hairbrush
I will burn
this happy house down
TheFeatheredSleep 