(C)older

Photo by Shannan Mann

My daughter speaks snowfall and mating elk 
and tree tree tree. When she is angry at me, 
she speaks crow and dinosaur and the echo 
that fills a forgotten well. I try to answer 
with conch shell and sunflower and sea-rain 
but she can only understand lone-polar-bear-
floating-on-a-petal-of-ice. After she left 
for school today, I returned to our room 
and cried for many days. There are many 
days inside one day. As there are many 
daughters inside one daughter, and many 
mothers inside one mother. And also, many 
mothers inside a daughter and many daughters 
inside a mother. When she is older, I wonder 
if she will blame me for the divorce, if she 
will believe what many people say about women 
who leave, if she will remember all the milk hours, 
all the raindrop pat-pat-pat of my hands on her back 
all night. But whether she does or not — this happened.
I held her seashell body algaed with IV-tubes and wept 
a soft, warm rain of blue milk for three infinities.
My mother wishes me dead almost every day and I still
cannot bring myself to wish her the same, still hold 
the tip of the wing of the bird of hope that she will love 
me. I must remember now that daughters are kinder 
to their mothers than mothers are to their daughters.
Anasuya, when you are older, please hold 
the water and bird of this poem and translate it 
to snowstorm or pinecone or earthworm.