It's too early to tell, once folded,
how deeply the heart will wrinkle.
I'm going to visit my mother
in a dress too large for dancing,
the anonymous body hiding
a small child in its creases.
I know the mind remembers
where it came from, broken twigs
retain the shape of trees that
made them; winds or squirrels
to blame. Who never taught
the girl to dance or fall gracefully,
to lie beneath the feet that bend her?
In a dress too large for folding,
her hands curled lightly resting
like a blanket on an unmade bed,
the daughter's bones a perfect copy
of a prayer, the kind you whisper.