I always wanted a daughter, which is 
to say, I wanted a better self,

flicked from my marrow—made 
flesh. I wanted this bone-of-my-bones

to move in the world, exceptional 
and unharmed. Not this world. But a world

almost exactly unlike it. Same 
paved streets and street cafés, same slow

unfurl of spring. Only, in that world, 
the green of field and orchard is still wanton

with winged things, their bellies powdered 
with the flowers’ gold dust.

Daughter, I say, and I mean a list 
of what-ifs, a cacophony of sorrows.

I imagine her tall, lithe as willows. 
When I say Daughter,

I mean a match, ready to strike herself 
against the world that isn’t

this one. I mean luck. I mean a river 
empty of drowning. I mean an arrow

aimed at an unnamed star. Someone 
once said a daughter is a needle in the heart.

I would take that needle, sew her a dress 
of yarrow and blood.

In the world not this one, 
I have a daughter. She is a long braid,

a memory of fire. She goes before me, 
shining darkly, into a city—

of gold, of salt—that I will never see.

Well, son, I’ll tell you: 
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare;
But all the time
I’se been a’climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners, 
And sometimes goin’ in the dark, 
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back;
Don’t you sit down on the steps, 
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard;
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

For a short time I walked the earth as a woman, breathed in the scent of gardenias and gasoline,
made love to a man. We lived in a small house with a narrow staircase leading upwards into nothing;
the second floor was never built. I fed him fresh garlic and parsley from our garden, the smell rising
to the top of the staircase where we made love, knees and ribcages bumping against the ceiling. But
my throat grew dry, my feet stuck in the dust. At night, while he slept, I walked down to the marsh
where the birds gathered to dive for fish, the water wetting my waterless lips, the gentle rocking
soothing the aches in my feet, my arms. Please, I said to the white tern bringing her six little
hatchlings bits of fish guts, you a mother who has so many children, help me a mother who has
none.

The next morning, I woke up vomiting feathers. In a few months, my belly was round and full as a
blowfish and I felt the flutter against my ribcage. I walked down to the banks of the marsh, spread
my legs, and out she came, a pure royal tern, her white feathers beaded with blood. She was hungry
and I had nothing to give her; she would not take my milk. I waded out to find the mother bird on
the other side of the marsh. I cannot help you, she said, I have my own children to feed. So I turned
into a fish. My daughter dove, grasped me in her beak, and swallowed me whole. Now, I live within
her light body. We spend our days upon the high winds, bumping only against the sky. Now, I feed
her.