by JESSICA LEE
How many daughters use weather talk
as metaphor, meaning
Mom, it's raining hard, and cold
I woke up, cold, with a hard
man inside of me
I didn't want there.
Wells dry, I stayed
quiet, more like snow
than rain, really.
How many daughters keep such stories
the surface like fish, restless
beneath thin ice.
How many mothers wish their daughters
hadn't learned to stop demanding what they want
and don't want.
No matter. The fish, more like
shame—impossible to count
those slippery shadow darts, hiding
in the heat of tangled reeds
impossible to account for love
the way it tangles self and origin,
broken daughter trying to protect
the one who split for her.