in her image

i stand in the midnight line

of a busy gas station

waiting my turn

for a crisp plastic-wrapped pack

of Marlboro Silver 100s,

always the 100s.

we mirror each other 

in moments like these,

my mother and i, like when

the top of my mother’s lip

curls unevenly atop her teeth when she smiles and

she smokes the same ones,

always has,

as i put the stick to my lips,

i think of her.

we exist

as a perversion of mirror image,

her past and my present

vastly unchanged.

it has been many years

since she was me,

had dreams like me,

youth like mine.

but i am still her.

she is still me.

when I am done,

the faint smell of smoke

has seeped into my skin and

my hands smell like hers

my hair smells like hers

my coat smells like hers

i smell like her,

i am my mother.