the daughter i donšt have
LYN LIFSHIN
wouldnšt have to go over
all the old hurts,
everything ion the
past, as if to know
who she is now or
might have been.
She wonšt string the
łwhat ifs˛ or łmight
have beens˛ into beads
she twists into a choker,
sleeps in, feels press
into dreams of where
whoever left is still
leaving, a chicken bone
caught in a throat,
hook that tears
more when she tries
to pull it out. The
daughter I donšt have
could close doors,
walk out in the
rain and see the
pools of water
as stars