Parenting

Parenting

I can't nestle
in my mother's haze hips,
ask her what's next,
edge my tongue up
to those gibbous eyes
as tears bestow
Circe's wisdom,
additionally curing
dehydration,
seedlings sprouting
in the substrate,
mottling ground
in adoring fever
and I can't find my father
in closets of unaddressed love notes,
eggs that crack open
on yolkfuls of unknowing.
I can't ask anyone
for answers to questions
that reduce me to
a migraine
drenched in the daze
of direct dawnlight
instead
I have to watch
this divine little thing
I've created
run beyond view,
wondering how I'll swallow
this frame again,
muddle along
while the entirity of me
seems to be growing
outside of my body,
inching away,
becoming her true self,
as she has been long before
I realised where we were.