Daughter Like Me

There must be a billion daughters just
like me. Afraid to speak. So many years
have piled up. Did I ever have
a voice? Before I was born, did I talk to the stars? Maybe
then I understood the sound of blood moving through
a body, a million reasons to stop searching for
a million different moons to capture. If only I were
interested in the moon’s path cutting the undersides
of the lies. I think I’ll grab my markers and trace my hand to
make a Thanksgiving turkey. I never did that before. I never saw
Lassie Come Home. I never understood the rules for Easter egg hunts. My father
used to hold me on
his knee when the world
was large enough to taste like lemons and
the feeling of his hand on my hair. Let me explain. When I
was small enough to fit in his mouth, my father
swallowed me. That’s why it starts to end whenever
I begin to find my way around it but
I always end up walking through the gate and
over the same hill. When I listen hard enough I realize how
many daughters it takes to lift
up the corners. One to grasp
the meaning, another to stop up my mouth. All the rest
keep silent while I hold up the quilt and he
slides under. 

Rebecca Cook writes poetry and prose and has published in many literary journals, including Northwest Review, New Orleans Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Midwest Quarterly, Slipstream, and Southern Humanities Review. Her chapbook of poems, The Terrible Baby, is available from Dancing Girl Press.