No Daughter of Mine
Mama and Daddy,
and clapped when my six year old self
clomped into the kitchen
all decked out in Mama’s twirly skirt,
her black stiletto heels
her peasant shirt that drooped
off one shoulder like I’d been in
some tussle that would also explain the
smeared red lipstick and my
Now, taking in my tooled leather boots
my sequined jeans
the silver ring she hates that adorns
our natal connection, she swears
(in her own Mama’s voice)
“No daughter of mine will go
Her own smeared mouth
sneers at the Smoky Rose on
my lips, the Purple Dusk on my eyelids.
I’ve become more a threat than
a daughter, a memory of
her own forsaken innocence.
Daddy’s empty space circles her shoulders
like smoke from her cigarette.