Side by side
in the diner,
Gram and I
read menus;
my boyfriend read
our bones
and faces.
The two Maggies,
the family resemblance.
I look
like my namesake.

I used to
like my mother.
She’s become
the missing link
in a chain
of bright-eyed women:
where did
your face go?
Why did you
weary the bones
the mapped us?