Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

June 05, 2004

To the Daughter

Slow woman of empty eyes,
Shuffling along the sidewalk.
Phantom apparent, moves as a
Destroyed ballerina: apart and broken.
Where has her mother gone?
Why does she not hold her? (Hold her!)
Yet so young, girl of careful steps
And looped laces and clenched fists.
Soft down hair in the dusk light,
That someone once kissed smelling newborn
And of her own womb.
Perfect warmth poisoned by car exhaust,
Chilled by alley nights.
Where has her mother gone?
Why does she not seize her daughter
From the corner where the light says go
But she does not walk?
Slow woman dances circles,
But no one claps for her.
As I stand on the curb,
Her voice comes, warm and silent on my neck:
I am your daughter, too.


Posted by Delire at June 5, 2004 09:04 AM
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