Daughters in Love
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