How to Backslide
Day your mother slapped you for
rolling your eyes was the day you
learned there was no mirror
you wanted to mirror.
You with your too much attitude
your insatiable grip for baby blue eyeliner
and gold eyeshadow.
You’d sneak in your parents double
sink bathroom before school.
Only one in the house - still
footprints padded by an extra pair of socks
to stop the creak in the middle of the
landing.
Milk still wet behind your ears, baby.
Caramel popcorn stuck in your braces.
Latchkey kid who would usher boys
through the house.
You knew early you desired desire.
Rubber bands to secure
your shirt a little higher.
You washed jeans and dried
them on high for a tighter fit.
You knew early you wanted more
than a house that you would have to wash
the baseboards back white.
You played in your mother’s
boxes of jewelry. You’d wear her
silver heart necklace, her emerald
engagement ring. Your gum popping
against your mouth, you back on your shit
again.
You had to relearn it but
you got a whole riot inside you.
Labored it and had it slapped out of you.
The myth entered and left you meek.
How to replace what is stolen?
You name your daughter from the kitchen.
From the only place your mother
would hum a R&B song,
rub the baby hair next to your temple.
Samantha Williams
is a poet and single mother. She is getting her English degree from Kennesaw State University. She is a reader for Muzzle Magazine.
Instagram: samanthaliana_