Fiona

By summer, you’ll be in love with death, with boys named Jason. Jacob. There’s an old gas pump in the yard and a humming bird made of tissue paper throbbing in your chest. You’ll try to define taste, burnt fruit and powdered sugar, your panties rumpled and thrown down the well. Grief always makes the most beautiful ruckus, the most beautiful jewelry. My tongue yearning to caress different words, apples, cicada, the way it caressed the cream lining of your ear. I’ll wake up at three every night craving mint ice cream, dream of my mother’s hands sifting flour. Like all the daughters, aching to be beautiful inside and out. Our eyes longing to see but covered by our fathers' hands.