my
daughter
my
voice
from
my
body
to
your
mind
take
her
with
great
care

touching
him
is
over
sweet
never
and
dying
is
forever

he
sang
to
me
he
had
his
eye
on
me
I'd
go
home
with
him
forever

she'd
given
up
on
hope
but
the
dull
ache
of
missing
her
was
still
there

the
man
looked
like
someone
I'd
known
once
someone
I
didn't
want
to
know
now

I
think
up
perfect
poems
on
my
walk
and
forget
them
when
I
get
home

I
wanted
to
make
him
hungry
like
the
way
I
do
in
my
dreams

the
slug
resembled
the
leaf
or
maybe
the
leaf
resembled
the
slug

all
I
could
think
about
doing
was
kissing
her
hair
holding
her
hand

she's
my
little
doll
that
worries
about
death
with
her
eyes
and
her
lips

she
wants
to
know
what
death's
like
I
don't
know
I've
never
died
before

tell
me
your
feels
you
can
use
my
blood
to
write
it
make
my
skin
the
paper

I
would
tear
down
a
star
and
put
it
into
a
smart
jewelry
box

-anne sexton

I
read
the
whole
book
then
I
read
the
book
again
that
was
yesterday

I
lost
a
notebook
with
our
honeymoon
and
six
new
poems
in
it

it's
something
I
hadn't
really
considered
until
just
recently

it's
just
I
keep
thinking
about
the
note
from
her
I
found
in
his
book

I
shall
need
an
assistant
come
and
give
me
a
hand
with
these
bodies

loving
him
was
easy
the
hard
part
was
hating
him
she
welcomed
fall

pictures
of
my
grandmother
my
future
had
been
read
against
my
will

no
matter
who
the
girl
is
or
where
she
goes
the
mother
still
loves
her

she
said
when
she's
sad
she
just
wants
her
mommy
I
wanted
a
mommy
too

writing
dreams
down
since
the
1980s
I
always
knew
good
poetry

she
needs
a
kind
mother
I
don't
wipe
away
the
cobwebs
when
I
see
them

he
was
a
back-patter
the
type
that
likes
to
grab
your
shoulders
squeeze
them

she
looks
comfortable
in
her
clothes
I
feel
uncomfortable
in
mine

the
idea
that
we're
all
in
this
alone
has
never
made
me
feel
good

she
reminded
me
of
the
fall
roses
how
it's
never
quite
over

she
wanted
any
other
life
than
the
one
she
had
yet
she
wouldn't
leave

and
just
then
I
could've
driven
straight
off
the
road
and
into
that
river

I
had
forgotten
about
the
goatheads
thank
god
but
not
the
metalwolf

all
this
hanging
on
letting
go
and
then
the
doing
it
all
again

to
hand
someone
something
or
to
walk
away
and
not
see
him
again

they
said
his
poems
were
all
about
her
mine
will
be
all
about
you