"you have the same"

she takes my hand in hers. her skin is lined,
nut-brown,
her fingertips rough.
she pulls me towards her. presses my arm against her own,
until we almost match,
wrist to wrist
her elbow too long.
“you have the same skin,” she says
(my interpreter says)
you have the same skin.

this mother is not
the first. others come forward and lay intangible tangible claims
on every part of me, light and inescapable as dandelion seeds
that come from grounded clouds and cling to clothes
after they have burst apart.
each bursting takes a fraction. i find myself
separated.
you have the same
“hair.”
“eyes.”
“nose.”
“laugh.”

my interpreter thinks it's funny, a little
ridiculous.
she laughs at it, translates it
with the kind of off-hand secret thoughtlessness
reserved for throwaway comments and
conspiracies. “they say you have the same smile,” she says
before looking at me critically, focusing
on the way my mouth is shaped, the curve
of my lips. i smile, reflexive.
“no,” she says,
and shakes her head.

it’s odd, being claimed.
it's not even claiming, because claiming infers
i knew that there were parts
that they could own.
sometimes a mother says it pointedly
if another mother is present. we have the same
and in rebuttal, we have the same
but the same is never all. it would be kinder if
they wanted everything. but they’re afraid
of disappointment. i understand. i'm afraid
of fracturing, and of running out of pieces
i can give.

妈妈，爸爸，妹妹。我的家。
here i am.
i'm sorry, you'll have to forgive
my appearance. i've been
disassembled
by desperation,
reassembled
by hope.