I’ve been watching my long girls with their continuous
hair—not what I’d been expecting. Their heads like flowers
lolling on the thin stems of their necks. I did the best
I could. I knew what it was to be a woman. A little boy,
brash as my brothers, with a straw hat in the sketch
I made. What happened to that plan. Serve men a fried
steak or that cake with the berries and you can see
their shoulders ease down–foreheads loose, jaws
working–before they rise from the table, iron again.
Some time later, they’re looking red as their meat,
my daughters taller across the room. You begin to feel
the world turning. Back on your heels, you’ve got to run.
