The Posture

My brother said it last Sunday—

the way I hold the brush the same,

fingers curled exactly like hers,

like she invented this game.

I saw it in the window's reflection,

my shoulders bent and small,

the slope of my neck,

as if I'm apologizing to the wall.

I swore when I was twelve,

swore it with all my rage,

watched her iron his shirts with that silence,

decided I'd turn a different page.

But there I was,

becoming her anyway,

while she was becoming

her own mother that day.

All of us in kitchens,

bent over the same small failures,

all of us holding this particular

posture, all our heirs.

I put the brush down.

Didn't finish the plate.

Caught my own reflection

and couldn't escape my fate.