grave daughter

Thank you to Olly von for your poem, Release me, which inspired this piece.

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choked rage,
smoke caught in the larynx,
fingers gripping tightly around the steering wheel, 
i am my mother’s daughter in all ways
but one.

the forest air is crisp— the moments before the earth wakes, 
the quiet nearly swallows me.
and for a second, i think i can be whole again. that i can be
taken back into the earth,
damp soil, pressed to my forebrow.

and i am taking the shovel,
i am making a bed for myself.
i am returning—

back to the forest floor, 
back to the sweet, dark cavity—

the anger sharpens,
it's full and heady, like a cheap bourbon,
and i’m gorged on this feeling:

the body bag inside the pickup truck,
the blood i couldn’t quite wash off,
the flickering of the gas station lightbulb, 
his blood, rust-colored and flaking, as it
dries underneath my nailbeds.

i am my mother’s daughter,
in all ways, but one.

my anger is my father’s. 

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