daughter of quiet fruit
daughter of my honey
bee, when we walk together at night,
when we seem to appear to ourselves
when you find me hunkered
steaming with decomposing grass
you know the sound of foxes
the rush of mailboxes the spendy
trendy quiet sweet packages.
he spit on me, daughter.
asked me for my hands
wrapped in tissue paper
filled with small gems of sugar
he wanted to know the number of my hairs
and so we spent a week plucking them out one by one counting them out
fifty-nine, seventy-two, three-thousand-one and so on
by the time
we finished we weren't interested in eyebrows or armpits
what happens when you speak to a daughter, to your own daughter.
do you feel awkward as a man
knowing you'll never know
I've heard of rooms before
of small crevices in the backyard that gravitate toward you
of little fish bladders
of large open fields that hide caves under their corn
of heaven without a uterus because it is one turned inside out and now all we have is the inside with no outside, like a ballon losing the outside, like a blood cell everted, the outside lost somehow:
this is the ocean, this is the moon, this is love, things that have lost their shell and are only innards now.