My mother’s new snowsuit
got caught on a fence
that she was not meant to climb over
in much the same way
that Rapunzel’s mane
stuck like ivy to the brick of her tower.
My mother’s mother saw her
and raced her to the front door;
the other mother
felt her stomach
tie itself into a knot.
The older mother won the race
and put the younger mother in her place.
This is the circuit that I trace—
I, who wasn’t made then,
who wasn’t even a loop on my mother’s finger.
I am still trying to catch them up.