by Savannah Burrow

when i was young, people said i had my daddy’s face
it was pasted on me like the dark velvet of my sunday best
hair pushed back by a headband
matching just as well as it could

i grew up into the black sequins of a long prom dress
bleach dead hair on my head
more mature, more grown
you look just like your mother when she was young

i got more from them than the shapes of my face
and the facets beneath my skin
one way or another
everyone echoes what they are taught

they say roots run deep
in red soil i learned red love
a sapling feeding on small spaces
where the softer soil for older oaks dried long ago

sometimes, i forget
not all trees are blasted
with the heat
of texas sun

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About the Author:

Savannah Burrow is a 22-year-old poet from Austin, Texas. She is a senior at Hobart and William Smith, double majoring in English and Studio Art. Her work mainly focuses on relationships, love, and the complications they can bring. Her favorite apple is the Pink Lady.