It wasn’t until I was ten

that I noticed frown lines stretching

from my mother’s hairy chin

to the corners of thin lips.

Hair a mass of frizz,

stomach a lump of fat.

Sense of humor drier

than her calloused toes,

and Steve Martin impression

was complete shit, yet she still

told jokes at family dinners

and performed scenes from

Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.

Try to hide shared qualities

under hats and packed-on makeup.

Lines on my own face now,

try to calm my curls,

but her flaws cannot be erased

like a misspelled word on a chalkboard.

Every time I tell a perfectly planned out,

absolutely hilarious story and receive

mechanical laughs and rolled eyes,

I can think to myself,

at least Mom thinks I’m funny.