The Slow Theft

I saw my mother this morning, which is strange

since she’s been in the ground for three years.

She was reflected in the toaster, a sudden change

in the angle of my jaw, the set of my ears.

I touched my face and the metal felt cold.

The geometry’s shifting, the bone coming through

in ways I wasn't prepared to behold.

I’m becoming the person I thought I knew

only from photographs and Sunday visits.

I pinched the skin on the back of my hand

and watched it stay peaked, a small 'what is it?'

of a mountain that won't return to the land.

It doesn't snap back. It just lingers there,

a map of the time I’ve spent being me.

I’m losing the girl with the blue-dyed hair

to the woman I never thought I would be.