The Daughter by Carmen Giménez Smith
We said she was a negative image of me because of her lightness. She's light and also passage, the glory in my cortex. Daughter, where did you get all that goddess? Her eyes are Neruda's two dark pools at twilight. Sometimes she's a stranger in my home because I hadn't imagined her. Who will her daughter be? She and I are the gradual ebb of my mother's darkness. I unfurl the ribbon of her life, and it's a smooth long hallway, doors flung open. Her surface is a deflection is why. Harm on her, harm on us all. Inside her, my grit and timbre, my reckless.
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