Published on April 19th, 2017 | by Charlotte O'Brien0
M.I.L.F and OTHER POEMS
October – Blood Moon
For My Daughter, Who is about to Turn Thirteen
Ten years ago you were fat and happy,
dumb as a puppy. All strawberry short-cake,
all ladybug and roly-poly, dandelions and marigolds,
you wore tiaras to the grocery store
and brought your wand with you to breakfast.
Sweet thing, my hot-blood filly,
this is our season, as it turns
we exchange vows –
you rise and clamor at its gate
you begin to wear yourself –
your chestnut mane, a glossy new coat.
You are hungry for everything, clumsy with unnamed
longing. Stand there,
quenchless in the half-light,
drink milk from the carton, I know,
no amount of coolness, can cool you.
You are a cornucopia
filled with the sweet blood of beets,
burgeoning pomegranate seeds, pear-blossomed,
the un-bit apple, bright poppy, you brim and ooze –
almost ripe. But hold
the blood in your mouth. First, taste it.
I turn my face towards winter,
bruised by love, I’d give you all of it.
The wind comes, and I bear it. It winnows
through me. I am chaff,
I am burnished gold, cider-pressed –
reaped and brittle, a field of stubble.
I catch us in this exchange, its transference –
a thing, as simple as breath.
You glean from me, and turn, blistering,
readying yourself to fall.
There is nothing about the packet
of toilet paper beneath my arm,
or the baby wipes, or the small child
begging me for chocolate at the checkout
which makes me think
you should want me.
There is nothing about
the box of animal crackers on the table,
or sandwiches with the crusts cut off,
which allows me to see myself
as the object of your desire.
Fuck me in my dressing gown
pulled up around my waist,
your hands holding on
to these childbearing hips,
your head pressed
between my thighs
and I will fuck you
in your navy sweaters
and your button down shirts.
Talk politics to me.
Talk semiotics like you mean it.
I will suck on your providence
as if you are paying me for it.
Come at midnight
I’ll open the door in my mom jeans.
Come in the quiet hours between
Tonka trucks and bedtime stories.
Come in through the window
because I like it that way, with the schoolbags packed
and the kids sleeping soundly.
Come in the moonlight after you’ve tiptoed
across my Lego-ed floor
and I will submit myself fully—
to be reminded
who I am really
what I want.