Daughterling, and: Intersections

Daughterling

Blessed are those who stand still in theirconfusion. Blessed is the field as it burns.brigit pegeen kelly

All the ghastly flies: I gave them girl names.I tried her names on them like girdles.They didn't stay. She wasn't dead enough

then. I had lists. The windows, bustedin a hurricane in August, still in disrepair.The bones of a girl, unspilled, inside me.

Names on headstones, this year I wanderthe cemeteries in Copenhagenlooking for our shadows. The dead

tell me to go on. This living, like a belllodged in my throat. She let me pretenda name meant I could keep her

like every shattered syllable my mouthhas made. Dear daughter, dear century,dear etymology—what more have I

to do? Like a fool, I pick the peony.Lick every petal before swallowing.Praise what she has given me.

Intersections

A mare lies alone in a field, her bellydistended, ribs like ladder rungs. Every fewminutes, her body quakes. The minstrel

wind shakes the oaks, as she spits& shakes. I've seen this before:the way a woman's body reaches

for its own ruin. Between the ilium,the sacrum. A head driven into hard bone.The alae's pearled wings that push back.

In the 18th century, the sacrum was believedto be indestructible. The sacred bone.But, so much of birth is destruction—

the vertebrae, the bodies, the promontory.Where & when & where. The intersectionof all parts. A cathedral's bronze doors

opening. The sudden obedienceof warring states. A labour that can beoutlasted. And, sometimes, a good birth

is merely a gasp of air. Blood. Shit.The cathedral, its windows kicked out.