Mole mapping

By Nora Blascsok

I count thirty moles on my left arm only

remember twisting my neck contorting

to see one on my back tiny bathroom

mirror exact same spot on cousin mother

in Hungarian mother mark/ticket – the time

suspecting ticks she ogled a magnifying

glass pass the tweezer avoid the thicket

mother ticket each a mark of being burnt

run to her through tunnel carved by

light crawl back to a time a cord linked us

now a phone line mole on our back map

to navigate mines fragments linger

wait in the sun for a one-way ticket

mother to burrow back home to you

© 2020 harana poetry

  • Twitter Clean