THE DAUGHTER I DON'T HAVE jolts up in the middle of the night to curl closer than skin, pink tongued in a flannel dress I wore once in some story. I part her hair, braid her to me as if to keep what I can't close, like hair wreathes under glass in New England. Or maybe pull the hair into a twist above the nape of her neck, kiss what's exposed so wildly part of her stays with me
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Female Only #6
ISSN: 1044-7490 (c) September, 1999 All rights remain with their creators Web version designed and edited by by Haze @ UrbanDecay.Org Print version edited by Cheryl Townsend at Implosion Press |
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