by Kirsty Logan
Look at this castle: fashioned from the sturdiest sand,
pages of my name on the kitchen table
scattered with toast crumbs and newspaper innards.
Very Nice
says her back as she climbs the stairs.
Very Nice
says her wrist as she starts the car.
I refill her party glass; she rests her palm on my cheek, aims a smile.
I linger and mingle, listening to the curls of her vowels around my name.
Over the laugh of her shoulder, around the ears of strangers:
My daughter. She's a writer, you know.
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NaPoWriMo, Day 25
Enjoying your series, Kirsty. Good piece here.
Kirsty this is nice. i like the "Very Nice" says her back and again about her wrist. Also"the curls of her vowels around my name"
I sense a lot of love and desire for acceptance here.