We bathe our daughter,
a prayer for every part,
as if we were washing her
with song.
Fingers frail as blades of grass.
Her thousands of eggs,
already inside her.
1999
from "Fontanelles" by Anne Michaels
Labels:
poetry
We bathe our daughter,
a prayer for every part,
as if we were washing her
with song.
Fingers frail as blades of grass.
Her thousands of eggs,
already inside her.
1999
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