Ode to the mole on the tip of my daughter’s nose
Random, well-placed
marks make you unique.
Like a well-chosen word,
the mole on the tip
of your rounded nose,
perfects the sentence of
your face.
When you were born
your face was
swollen, squished
by my internal organs.
Though you cried and
screamed every night,
your birthmarks faded
silently. Through disappearing
milia, your singular mole
emerged.
New moles arrive
everyday, dot-by-dot
constellations multiplied
despite the lotions
we spread like glue
so the sun won’t stick.