Ruby Coy
Today, this. A poem I wrote seven or eight years ago for my beautiful daughter. So beautiful she is. Yes, and so sweet.
SWEET BLOOD
for Ruby
Because you say desire smells like corn
and lure the yearling shadows close enough
to nuzzle, we call you deer whisperer.
Because you hiccup as the incense
ball nears, we pour salt
in the furthest corner of the yard.
Because you whisper the hummingbird’s secrets,
we learn to split the baby & glue splinters
back to bark. For those graces, you’ll pay
in cinnamon and cabbages. And though I don’t recall
whose arms I abandoned as you mewled
at the old maid’s wedding,
it was not a single-grained silence
shattered but an invocation
of mermaid hair and green glass baubles.
Because I hold you in my hand—a watermelon seed,
an amulet against late summer’s backward glances,
you can not be passed one apron to the next.
Your just-finished skin, thin as grapeskin,
drapes your sweet blood as your father and I glance
one last time. I cry your name in a gasp.
**Gratitude to Clackamas Literary Review for first running this poem.
