In a room full of women
who look like home,
watching their smiles as welcoming as mats,
I am reminded
that my type of beauty looks nothing like theirs.
Nothing silk soft like how they hold the gazes of men.
I have my mother’s eyes you know.
there was nothing gentle about the first time my father saw my mother.
My mother’s gaze; a call for battle and no promise of win.
My father forgetting everything else for a while.
That moment like death taking his breath away
giving it back to him when she finally said hi.
A type of rebirth.
For Ayomitans, reminding me that one is never too busy for words.