Nanny I did not know I could be grasped—
what says the world of being
nothing but an arm?
I feel the echo of my skin encased
in her; in these painted
waters, there is more than
just the smudge of my shape.

The thickness of her eye
is small, blue: a part of me
that I am told not to hide.
Though I seem to lose
what could be our gaze
in a wrap of color;
it dies in a film of light
and hides the feet that always run.

I was never born to be a mirror,
but the slack of my jaw
became the angle in glass.
And my hands, once
as small as the pleas that tug
at my legs and waist,
now fold before me.
The looks that brush
my skin belie, bored by
the curves of her tauts
and sags. She sees dust,
nimble as an afterthought,
and I have a tired voice.

About The Author

Sofia Io Celli is a freshman at the University of Virginia, where she studies English and biology. Although she is contemplating a career in medicine and research, she is passionate about her writing and takes it just as seriously. She hopes that, through her studies, she will be able to refine her craft, and she hopes to continue to grow as a writer and a scholar.

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About The Author