I tell her my eyes are small wrinkles.
Mom tells me, no, my eyes are beautiful.

But I look into the curves of her crease,
A lid that runs so smoothly like almond milk,
it cuts deep into her folds,
a measured centimeter down into her bones,

Mine are almost admirable,
the stubborn skin that refuses to curve.

I tell her my eyes are small wrinkles.
Mom tells me, no, my eyes are beautiful.

And I wonder why they cannot be both.