Sometimes the waves roll. Sometimes they crash into the rock,
and rock becomes sand, and the sand drifts out to sea.
I lie here waiting to be washed out to sea. Waiting for the tide to pull me under.
It happens too slowly, spiraling towards the eye, but never able to reach the rock.
Never able to feel the cool, slick stones underfoot.
A mother looks to her daughter.
The woman who was once her daughter, only when she allowed her to be. And at once, not
a daughter at all. The daughter looks to her mother; the woman was a mother all along,
but only in desire.
Perhaps only as the needle bounces off the vinyl, small sound bites that sound…”Mother,”
slowly. The daughter begins to see the spine, light twisting around each bone, however delicate. She no longer lays spineless in the grass, gasping for air. The woman is a mother, but not her own. The daughter now sees.
A daughter looks to her father.
To baseball gloves, warm cocoa, fresh cookies in twilight, whiskers and tight hugs.
Always a father, but now a man. Unsure, in fear and slowly looking over his shoulder,
chasing his tail.
A daughter looks to her father. The father sees her, but only as he eclipses himself, always
returning back to darkness. The daughter sees the father and wonders…will she be seen?
A woman looks to herself.
Looks to the daughter turning to ash. Again and again arising, only to return. Each time
the feathers molt a little more, singe and fray, loosing the beauty she longs to retain.