My mother has coarse feet,
Full of mountains and valleys.
When she sleeps, like a young woman
Her feet grow younger in carelessness.
I have run my fingers through the ridges of her feet
And seen her eyebrows pucker in obtrusive comfort.
My bleeding wounds,
Which have never stopped bleeding,
Have bled into her wrinkles
And I have imagined the shared blood flowing through our veins.
My mother’s feet grow young when she sleeps;
As young as she is.