AMERICAN PAINTING
by Jessi Jarrin
What are you? You’re Tinkerbell. I peel your lashes
and scrub the glitter. I must be fairy dust or a bad daughter.
Or am I the stories you’ve told me of your mother? Her nail
polish, scissors, and pills—how her own body
was a threat to you, too. I am tired
of your deaths. Maybe I’m the work you did as a child
in the factory, the face on your immigration card—
empty. How did she convince you to take a surgeon’s knife
to your eyes? Were you tired of the way she worried
American men would see them? I miss
your old windows. When I was a child, you told me to stop
shaking my luck off. I’m sorry. I want
to give us new mothers and mirrors.
Cut holes where our eyes should be
and start this all over. But right now, I need you
to scoot closer to the middle of the bed. I need you
to move. Close your eyes. Don’t fall. Look—
how the daughter holds the mother up
like a puppet. Or is it the mother
straining? Are the shadows playing
tricks again? The mother’s hair in a bun
and the daughter’s loose pony. A green dress
and sweats. And yet—threats glitter
on them both. Look—I’m getting so much
younger, Mom. We could make such
a pretty picture.