Spitting Image

I am the spitting image of my mother.

     I take after her,

my methods of madness and witty words

were a gift given from birth that I bear

that reminds my lola of herself, too.

She raised me to be like her—

     she raised me in a way where others would not agree—

          she taught me that I am not me but her.

She taught me to speak like her,

to speak her native tongue that began eons ago from line after line

     and until I learnt how to speak myself I sang

     line after line of old wishes and hymns from

          spitting images of myself.

My face has been seen since the beginning of time

     and yet I know nothing of the past me’s

and nothing of the people who’s caught a glimpse of my eyes

or those who know my rough hands as if it were their’s

or the ones who have memorised every syllable my mouth can say.

     I will never get the chance to backtrack on the adventures my face has been attached to

nor will I ever know them despite knowing each curve and dip my body has to offer.

I will never understand where my hair colour comes from or the way it blooms in the wind

     like it did when my first self walked this earth;

I will never understand the mosaic my moles have carved in my body

     like the stories of the stars and gods my other self created;

          I will never understand my mother, or my mother’s mother,

          like their mother’s did.

I am her, and she is me yet

I don’t know anything about her

just as much as she doesn’t know me.