things I did not inherit from my mother

The green thumb that stems from her palm,
dredging up plants and settling them into the earth
like children tucked into beds. I can’t help
the envy I have for these roots being nurtured.
I wish I too could bloom
from the underground.

The way she pulses magic through her palmistry,
she creates without having to
lift a finger.

I did not get the patience of my mother:
a beautiful virtue which makes her seem saintly.
I collapse,
I deconstruct,
while she in all her years has learned
to build


Emily Ferrera is a professional writer in Grand Rapids. Poetry is her passion, but she loves all things creative and does photography, illustration, and sewing projects in her spare time.

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