My daughter was understood.
She wasn’t a flower or a bee
or tropical storm or anything
else you can name and study
as a science. She had anatomy
but it wasn’t textbook like they
want you to believe. There wasn’t
a season for her. A chart to track her.
A price for the color of her hair.
She wasn’t a gift.
I couldn’t plant her in the soft soil,
give her roots or extract from her
all the sweet that pleased me.
Nor could I break apart the trees
or build a shelter to protect myself
from the violent adoration she spun
in my chest the moment I conceived her.
There is no wood strong enough.
No house pretty enough.
My daughter was understood
but not because numbers named her.
They only measured the length
of her soft, padded feet, her cherub legs,
how tall she could have grown.
MEGHAN BLISS is a freelance writer from Coastal NC. Her poetry and nonfiction have been published in Rust+Moth, Naugatuck River Review, A Poetry Congeries, and Mary Jane’s Farm, among others. Her chapbook, The Little Universe, was published in 2015 by dancing girl press. She is currently at work on her first novel. You can find more of her writing here.