I hold my daughter,
flower in a vase,
mountainside cheekbones,
pottery face.
We are formed from the same clay (large and steady figures)
standing in front of the basement mirror.
But she will go further
deadheading through time and space.
Her budding hormones,
sanctifying grace.
We are merely shadow play (cut-outs on a domestic stage)
but make no mistake:
she is my replacement.
©2023 | K.F. Hartless
Cover Art: Oswaldo Guayasamín





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