Russian Dolls Poem by Katrina McTernan

Lately I've found myself a stranger
as I increasingly see my face
reflected in every shiny surface
maybe it's a result of light refraction.
My old self is melting away like wax.
I think I am becoming my mother.
The wraith of her at night,
In she creeps
Dodging between amber fingers of the streetlights
Sculpting the hollow of my cheeks,
chiselling the gap in my teeth.

A few times I've thought of late
that I've heard my mother's voice
somewhere just beneath my own.
Her deadpan humour,
her straight talking gait.
Stalking my naiveté
Like a hungry puma.

She told me once
She also sensed her departed mother
Taking over.

The closest bond between a
Mother and her daughter
Is within utero
Hearing the living world
As if underneath water. But also post mortem
When roles are reversed
She in turn
feels her mother shift
sleepily deep within her
Perpetually the same wooden face
replicates
Like Russian dolls.


Lately I've found myself a stranger
As I increasingly see my face
reflected in every shiny surface
maybe it's a result of light refraction.
My old self is melting away like wax.
I think I am becoming my mother.
The wraith of her at night,
In she creeps
Dodging between amber fingers of the streetlights
Sculpting the hollow of my cheeks,
chiselling the gap in my teeth.

A few times I've thought of late
that I've heard my mother's voice
somewhere just beneath my own.
Her deadpan humour,
her straight talking gait.
Stalking my naiveté
Like a hungry puma.

She told me once
She also sensed her departed mother
Taking over.

The closest bond between a
Mother and her daughter
Is within utero
Hearing the living world
As if underneath water. But also post mortem
When roles are reversed
She in turn
feels her mother shift
sleepily deep within her
Perpetually the same wooden face
replicates
Like Russian dolls