“self-portrait as the women who precede me” by Rachna Iyer

on my right hand, I wear my mother.
I listen for the ticks in her old college watch,
the seconds telling me ​catch your bus before it leaves​, and
I think of all she has given me.
her time me, life lessons on independence.

I taste my mother in my tears
as we sniffle and turn to stare at each other’s wet, salty faces
in the middle of this dark and cold, popcorn-sweat theatre
in the middle of this story about a crazy man
in the middle of this tight sailor’s knot of our lives.

I am my mother, and I am my mother’s mother
when I stand, glistening, over the stove
stirring spices and
a little extra sugar never hurt anybody, right?
we leave the last piece untouched.

I hear my mother in my silence
as we swallow our desires, lumps of
soggy-dry cardboard, halfway lodged
in our throats like forgotten promises.
the difference lies in my cowardice.

yet
I am my mother in my rage.
her won’t-take-no-for-an-answer
her this-is-not-what-​I​-want-this-is-what-I-want-​for​-you.
maybe someday I will act when I know what motherhood feels like.

in my deep brown eyes, I wear my mother.
she is in the lumps on my body,
that one left incisor that just slightly yellower than the rest,
the dark hair on my upper lip that I pluck off my face.
maybe I should keep them.
maybe I should wear my mother on my face with pride.

Rachna Iyer is a rising senior double majoring in Psychology and English with a Creative Writing sub-concentration. In her free time, she can be found creating many Spotify playlists with different combinations of the same five songs, or losing board games (except Scrabble, she's pretty good at Scrabble).