By Boris Salvador Ingles
By Boris Salvador Ingles

By Karen S. Córdova

My daughter’s jade eyes flicker ruby. When mad,
my daughter’s nose flares like a stallion, like mine.
My daughter’s tongue lassos her children, saddles them
ready to trot, dressage, high jump.
My daughter has flexible shoulders that swim through a torrent,
carrying babies, who think she’s a mermaid enjoying the ride.
Who think mother’s arms are their own private nest
with flesh curtains and velvet lap covers.
My daughter has waterfall hands from which salmon jump
into béarnaise, and popovers fall onto prime rib shores.
Jeweled waterfall hands from which whirlpools of azurite,
topaz and knotted pearls foam into vortices—earrings
and necklaces fit for any Aphrodite neck.
My daughter’s legs give Mercury a run for his dime
in hailstorm of work and creation.
My daughter has feet of steel mettle
that sing silver when she laughs.

Published in Like a Girl: Perspectives on Feminine Identity, 2015

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