by Jessica Wiseman Lawrence
Her moving beneath my skin –
elbows sharp beneath the woven tent
of me, her the finest fish in my ocean.
Then born, gray-eyed, and I put her on a blanket beneath trees
full of spring, her looking up, so full of everything –
her on legs next, toes, teetering through the house,
her sudden running across the yard weeks later,
her swimming in the shallows of the lake.
Her. Drawing crooked poles into letters, her name
at school, farther from me –
every day a little farther.
Yesterday she rode her bike in the driveway, and I watched
her from the window while I rinsed the white dishes,
and I think now –
I will be stretched taut until I’m over,
forever pulled across her life –
a straight line from where she came from
and one of a million threads that made her.
PHOTO: The author’s daughter, age four.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I write about my daughter a great deal because I’m a poet, and she is poetry.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jessica Wiseman Lawrence is the author of Terrible Little Stars, available from Kentucky Story Chapbooks. Some of her other recent work can be found in Clockwise Cat, Indiana Voice Journal, and Cease, Cows, along with many others.