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Daughters in Love

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It is the snap of crabapples I remember most.

Green broken to white under pale pink pumps,

 *

stockinged calf splitting itself in two. I seeded my pockets

with pip to find my way home. That year, she wore

 *

crimson on her lips, kept fives star-folded

in her button holes. Remembered my name.

 *

She called it war. Fierce loyalty bought with hot fudge

and three weeks in a row. I wasn’t sure who won.

 *

In her trail, I learned to break wishbones

for the stories inside, untangle words that wound

 *

into constriction, retrieve the soft marrow of the tale.

I got in an accident. I got robbed. I had a stroke. A clot. A child.  

 *

I kept a backup plan rolled under my thumbnail, took it out

nights to plan escape. My father said: I’ll always love your mother.

 *

I just don’t like her very much right now.

I saw them in the moonlight once. The slant made ponds

*

of their closed eyes. Her blonde hair wrapped his wrists,

his face laid open to her palm, her bare foot poised to step.

*

A hornet rattled the window, whispering promise of treaty.

But I screamed, and no one heard the news. It is the break

of small things underfoot that I remember most, the split

of flesh from fruit, seeds taking root in the pockets of my skin.

*

***

Note: Just a quicky, using a flashbulb memory that I made up 🙂

Read today’s prompt (as well as the inspiration beyond poem-a-day) over at Not Without Poetry. My goal is to write a poem each day in less than 20 minutes, and without additional revision beyond the writing experience

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