By Jess Mills

You watch
from the bedroom door,
my stark-eyed fledgling
on a wire.
I see your heart beat
in the hollow
of your throat.

Let me be
your cornucopia,
fill you
with my bounty,
red, and gold,
and green.
Come into the kitchen.
Dance to the sizzle
of garlic cloves
in olive oil.
Open wide
for pasta
that rollicks
in a shiny pot.

Wheat stalk,
harp string,
thread of glass.
Daughter, daughter,
I reach to hold you,
and you slip
from my cupped hands
like water.


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