Before you lived, I lived inside my own
loathing. Some parents have children to replace
themselves, but we’re two instead of none.
Pushing you on a swing, sunset, my hands
on your mammalian back, I remember
how everyone thought I’d kill you by mistake,
my throat in hives because I believed
them. You made me too, daughter drawing
the last sip from a juice box, wisps of hair
rising in the dirty breeze. I show you
how to kick to propel yourself, and all threat
dips like the sun behind the jungle gym.
I may have been born a knife, but my daughter
won’t be a knife, nor its willing sheath.
