My daughter was an instrument of mercy wound
tight by songs better left alone. I trust you to make
your own meaning was what she alleged by her birth,
then danced a child’s paces with me when she was
three, spelled better than I ever did when I was ten, and left
me before I was already beyond thinking. Her lover
carved her name in a rock beneath the seaward
tower. No one goes there now. She’d warned me
about sin, the young herald of fever, and woke
blind as the summer sun.
February 29, 2016 by m4u
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