My mother she says it 'Sarah

My mother, she says it, 'Sarah.'

It hangs on her tongue, light.

Not mine. A different curve of mouth,

a different way to greet the night.

I taste the sound, a foreign thing.

What did she wear? What would she bring

to the world, that other me, that shadow?

Would she be quick, or sharp, or slow?

Would her hands hold grief the same?

Would her face flush with a different shame?

It's just a sound, a breath, a spell.

But that Sarah, she'd have stories to tell.