Daughter

Roots with the blue-corn husk
the stalks of weepy spines bend.
He spits into the plum-smoked dusk
where the tired scarecrows tend.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

Here I am, just merely eight.
The wrinkles on my collared dress
have seen my hard Father’s hate
while he rapes me to confess.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

The little synagogue between my thighs
spills with holy water that burns his tongue.
A spinning wheel whirs within his eyes
and I am, there, the helpless one.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

I’ve plucked the threads from my mound
for he would surely punish me.
When he grabs me, full and round
he makes me red and count to three.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

When I stood in the age of sin
with a dead child in my womb,
my father pulled it from my skin
and sent it to its watery tomb.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

Thank you Father, for my worth.
I am your baby of a bullet skull.
Tomorrow will be my new birth
when I am shipped to that limbo lull.
I will sleep with my palms to the sky.

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