Villanelle For Joan
At her age I’d hope I'm more sincere
after a lifetime tempered by revision,
with patience inherited from my mother
whose face in mine lines now appear.
I hit hereditary milestones with precision.
At this age I’d expect to be more sincere,
political views and love not reflexive veneer—
strong enough to withstand subtle derision,
an art form inherited from my mother,
who had the reflexive ability to disappear,
and was seldom wracked by indecision.
By this age I really should be more sincere,
imperfections not too fractured or severe
enough to race destiny to cosmic collision.
My mother was the daughter of another
who liked to fabricate, and engineer,
not comfortable with societal division.
If I reach her age I hope I’m more sincere
for in the end... I am my mother's daughter.