At two weeks
before twenty-two I feel
like I’m living in
a different body,
my face softer,
my mother in the mirror.
I go through all the motions,
my tallest five foot three reaching
to pull a pasta box
from the kitchen cupboard,
my numbest human form
pouring hard noodles
into a burbling pot.
I delight in the music
of tumbling pieces splashing
into the water.
I stir the starch away,
smile in front of the stove.
I thought I’d know
by now
who I am,
but here,
stirring steam,
I have transformed
into something else entirely,
softened
by the damp heat.
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