daughters

We used to bake. Rolling,
Moulding. Ploughing
Our jocund way through
This pallid face,
this dough-face. Are you my own,
Doe-face?

You are my garden.
My snarling peaches.
Don’t you love me,
Darling leeches?
Bountiful,
Gorgeous.
Gracious, infections!

You are my garden.
The foul, smirking dandelions
I nightly weeded –
My dark fruit
Blotting out the sun.