Daughters, A Poem

DAUGHTERS

by Katharine Rauk

 

who pocket lipstick from checkout lines,

who crayon their names on your wall,

who seesaw between seasons

and are seeds the wind plants

on the craggy backs of bears, who claw

their way out of your body

with jewels of blood bedecking their hair,

who click click click across the coliseum

of the Internet in their strappy silver heels, who wander

idle roads of summer and climb into the fretwork

of their guitars, who mark the moon as a jaw

breaker which they will lick down

to its sweet bonewhite heart,

who wear their mothers’ breasts

out ’til they’re two skinny dogs tied up in a yard,

who fetch you cottonwood fluff, who estrange you

from the loneliness you cherished

and string together a broken necklace

worth of your years, who winter, who are wheat

pennies turned up in dirt, who bury

their faces in sheets and veils, who wait

at the mall for boys to buy them Slurpees

as little pink iPhones vibrate

in the pillows of their hands, who call you

names, who sometimes kiss you, who slant

rhymes for no reason, and need none.

 

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