Some days, I've wished 
I could trade you 
for a daughter who listened. 
When I told you
something was hot,
you touched it.
When I said the fall
would break you, 
you bit the branch.
I can't comprehend 
the math of it—
how, producing you, 
I divided and became 
more fully myself.

Now you are eighteen. 
Be careful—
some will treat you 
like a girl. Watch out—
men will touch you 
like a woman. 
When your eyes grow
cloudy with sleep,
an old face flickers 
within your bones: 
the child who used to ask
for milk and cake. 
You've swallowed her. 
I love you twice as much.