Mirroring her voice

In the grocery line, I catch the lullaby,

humming it like a secret no one asked for.

The kid behind me wails—voice cracking sharp—

I feel her words slide from my lips without thought.

Cold coffee sips from a chipped ceramic mug,

its cracked surface mirroring my own tired face.

I scold the kid, the phrase brittle and rehearsed—

a thin veneer slipping to the core.

It hits—the taste of old echoes,

a mother’s shadow wrapped tight around my tongue,

not quite comfort, more like a borrowed coat

that’s always too tight at the shoulders.