Nosegay (after Sappho)

for Delaney

The one with violets in her lap

traces every contour of every girl

emerging before her. My daughter

erupts at every anxious line,

explores first boy under cover,

forages for blue, ember eyes of spark.

Lips of truancy ignore night's instruction.

Her taut hands swimming not roses,

her eyes not iris, but the smallest pluck of

conversation before the bouquet flattens,

hair curled in her hands wilting as if gripping

at secrets revealed in breathing in

intention will break hearts, break ribs.

She all authority, and I recognize in her

the tiniest scent as when I was daughter

swooning.

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Vessel

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As Mourning Doves Persist

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