Sawyer Fell

Darling hatched from fragile stone 
chirping nakedly in your infancy; 
you will not be a suitable daughter. 
You will not be angelic or saintly 
as you barely raise a pious wing.

You kissed me like how you eat 
apples with mundanity and matte eyes. 
Your bra clasp is a cracked wishbone 
held by a child’s birthday prayer.

So large and gentle, you were 
a special sort of worker. 
Strong from weathered weary, 
braving the wearied weather.

Ultimately, she will be served 
on her stained bed of silver, 
placed on the table of a rich man 
with an apple in her mouth 
forced into a glazed dress 
with her palms pointed to God. 

I do not remember when we were young 
or how large the world once seemed, 
this is one of the things only she knew.

I do not know how to bake 
something from scratch, 
like my mother’s cookies. 
With her instinctual precision 
and her habitual familial ease. 
I did not inherit this side of her.