Daughter

I sometimes wonder what kind of life I could start in this country, and if I have a child, will we be able to understand each other?

Daughter

Do you live within me now?

are you conscious of me?

are you watching your mother totter

around as if she's solitary being

as if she does

not harbor the promise of your

arrival in her limbs,

watching her choose the food she eats

based on

its resemblance to a particular

flavor called “home”.

You're mother's hands never

learned how to make a nest out of gravel

or cactus trees,

on pine trees growing from the side of

rocky cliffs; an insubordinate fist.

she hates this land.

You will be a child of this land

of the desert, rocky mountains, something

cold, something that does not wait for rain.

She won't know that you are not like her,

that you do not need to steep your roots in

miles deep water to grow,

and that your leaves will not be broad

and rubbery green, like hers.

They will be as long and as thin

as a nurse's needle.

Author's Note

first person to third person. unintentional but I will leave it be.