Nineteen

quietly reusing words
her mother crooned
when in the womb
she sits and whirls.
how thin her wrists
how delicate the skin
that peels over her heartbeat
blipping gently now as it did
last birthday, the one before, the day before
beneath thumb’s questing pressure

she is a daughter to her father,
she is inquisitive and at times
a doofus, yes,
but she is kind,
and this is all true.

her hair is a damp blaze
curling about pale shoulders
and dark mooncircles
beneath earthdirt vision.

she sways thinly
but she is no willow
whip, twisting at every calling
no. her great grandfather would have been proud
of solid hips. she is neutral on the matter.

dancing alone, conducting
wind, caressing bark with bare
feet, this is her freedom.

she upturns elbows
to face the storm.