by Christen Noel Kauffman
pick up your daughter playing
at your feet, she holds
a measuring spoon to fill you
with imaginary soup, fill you
with the way she pulls your hair.
Instead of kissing her round jaw,
you fold her up into sapling, plant
her back into your core. You cradle
her into fresh bread and swallow
her whole. You open as a barn door
and pull her into warmth.
You carry her in the pouch
of your cheek, whisper there now,
stay. You wish there were still trees,
wish the sun had been made
by a god you could love,
wish the world was a laugh
she could catch on her tongue,
wish you’d worked to fix it all
before carving her into pine,
before letting her loose
where the wolves come to feed.
You tell her a story
as you press her into egg,
how once there was a mother
who broke herself in two,
who would carry a seed
in the break of her chest, until
it was safe to let go.
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