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Amy Collins Poem
My Mother Is
my blonde roots I’ve box dyed black since I was 17
a sunrise in Barcelona
a sunset on Highway 70
the stretch marks between my thighs
a ripe tomato, sliced and salted
an empty pantry
a school ceremony with no one in the crowd
moonlight on the levee
every Bob Dylan song
a redwood tree
an unlived dream
Copyright © Amy Collins | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Amy Collins Poem
I read book dedications and cry.
Nostalgia burns worse than
the words you used to speak.
I've been the problem child since
—well, ever.
A self-fulfilling prophecy.
Isn't it ironic,
my diamond dame?
You brought me into this world
pink and smooth and wailing—
or so I’ve heard.
Some nights, I wonder:
Did the chicken come first, or the egg?
Did you hate me
before you made me?
Copyright © Amy Collins | Year Posted 2025
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