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Written in the same flame hand
I.
Written in the same flame hand
As the Chosen mitochondria of your daughter:
The harsh alien words
Stampede like metal animals from our mouths,
But she will learn to whisper them to birds.
II.
When we are overgrown
With the filigree ivy of our incomprehension,
Hers will be an asherah-
Or, at least, Better,
Or, at least, she will look God in the eye when she makes her demands,
Unburdened by the incense of cognitive dissonance embraced by our ancestors.
III.
We can’t protect her from Him forever.
We will circumscribe away the worst of her options,
Script the day she sees Him in His harsh hospital light.
Or is it better to let her choose the God that bites her?
At least her chapel will not be obscured by her father’s face.
Loving his God-shaped scar so deep,
Branding her with a more exotic one.
