Continuous Family Ownership

Jenn Marie Nunes

The ocean receded. There is the mother. Once upon a time it was her

first and only divorce. But

is that a beginning? Then she lost her father. Once upon a time she

had no more men.

There is the daughter. Someone walking in a circle. There is the

mother and there the daughter.

Outside the snow a stilling blanket. Inside the girl shape doubles

around our hands. We make

donuts from my great-grandmother’s recipe. She feeds me three

generations. She feeds me butter

and whole milk and cream. She is happy until the mirror cracks. She

is happy until she isn’t

and I’ll never understand. She says mirror mirror. She says I was no

great beauty. She chips the

pink tile from the bathroom walls. I think of it like my grandmother is

coming, my grandmother

is coming! My mother says she was clothed and fed but that’s where

her mother’s love ends. Still

grandma comes through her. See, there’s an insides. Edges sharpened

to a bitter blue keen.

In my dream the snow covers her tracks and the deer make new

ones. Dinner is lovely

the garden is lovely. In reality I’m not sure these are my hands. I am

no great beauty says my

mother and sets the table for two. Only daughter. I grasp the hem of

her skirt. I chew out a hole.

She talks for hours at the table. I leave slices of bread in the basket. I

learn how to run. Mommy

I’m sorry I can’t make you become. Now the clear blue anger. I am

going I should not be going

I should never go I best go now. She wants someone to open her.

Thinks she’s vessel, needs an

anchor, wants to see herself make a shape in his hands. I eat with my

hands. Lick my fingers. My

father tells me I have beautiful eyes. Even without men there are

men. Mommy never touched

me but when the dishes are dirtied there’s only me and her left to

blame. Even without men there

is violence. I’ll eat chicken over and over and like it. I’ll sleep and

sleep until noon. Mirror

mirror. Her face shuts down like a spoon. There is my grandmother’s

china. Her color a bitter

blue keen. Once I had a mother. Someone walking in a circle. A heap

of pink tile in the sun. I

turn off the path into shadow, put out my hands. Let me tell you what

literally. I am no great

beauty says my mother. The thing is she won’t ever just punish me.

This is my story and I’m not

even listening. Her face is the first mirror I see.