My mother before she became my mother: smiling, still.
Neck heavy with marigold, blush blurring into sari.
Sundar gudiya. A perfect doll.
The universe is dying—entropy, my textbook calls it.
Dying, an action verb, like sparrows molting, like lips
parting. It is easier to be many things than it is to be one.
Once, my mother dropped a Roomba on my head
and said, “I wish you were a boy.” A decade later,
I respond, in a whisper: “I wish I were a boy, too.”
My mother isn’t pregnant anymore. At night, she sits
at the kitchen table. The room swallows her, cavernous
as a jewelry box. Red spiderweb eyes. Yawning
little sparrow mouth. Still, we pretend
to be inevitable. Still, she pretends to wear her curves.