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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