I inspect my mother’s arm
for new freckles, changing moles.
It is my own skin, but I think
I’ve taken on hers. I’ve seen
her in the mirror, the arch
of my eyebrows, the gray
in her hair. Yes, these are the same
arms I leaned my young cheek against,
the same flesh cooling with drizzles
of rain from being caught in it,
like the time I’d been caught and cried
because I was so cold. I was too old
for tears, but I’d had enough of the wet
and the spin of wind, enough of this.
Counting the moles, I keep losing track.
Andrea McBride has studied poetry since her move from Ohio to the Tampa, Florida area in 2009. She has poems published in various online and print journals such as Sandhill Review, Odet, One Sentence Poems, and Alba. She also has an interest in music. She especially enjoys playing and teaching piano.