With your hands wrist-deep
in the black of loamy soil,
you tell me your
infant daughter died
at break of dawn,
on a day that our star
rose without hindering cloud;
and you mused that early morning ,
as you sadly went and found her,
stiff as a Hasbro doll,
her unblinking eyes
locked upon the ceiling ,
that to call it “sun”
is a misnomer,
for it’s connected to Mother Earth,
and either “u” or “o”, it says the same
masculine thing.
It's the female
that reproduces,
you said, gives seeds
a place to call home.
“Daughter,” you decreed,
call it Daughter.
It will surely love us more
and our longing will be greater
on the days it isn’t there.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image
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