Rosalie Moffett

I started out looking

I started out looking

            like her; she cut

my hair like hers; my face was like hers.



            And then I underwent

a phase where I appeared as someone else,

            though now the older



I get, the more again I begin to resemble

            my mother. My father

and I discuss whether the way



            her mind flounders

might be genetic, inheritable, and he, all doom

            -and-gloom, concludes



it likely is, and may have nothing

            to do with her brain

having collided with the inside of her skull



            so many years ago and so

I feel around inside my head for soft spots

            that might turn



worse—some fruits get one little ding

            and a day later are miserable

all over, collapsed and black.