When the dogwood in our yard drips 
dry, pink blooms erupt like wounds. Knowing me, 
my brother once said, be sure to live outside
of sadness. I craved storms the way some were 
addicted to drugs or horses, I adored
the word flank for its military muscle.
On my left sits gloom, on my right 
the memory of a Buddhist monk.
He was passing through town. I made 
an appointment. About my daughter, 
he said, she will do what you do. After that, 
I sought silver linings without edges
sharpened, drank chamomile tea, 
kept a journal until I turned coward. 
Finding my daughter in the bathroom, 
I calculate our odds and press a cloth
to her arm. She drops the blade in a corner 
crammed with dirty laundry. I couldn’t speak
until now. No longer captive to her grief, 
my daughter points to full moons and horses 
clustered in a mountain field, hooves 
carving columbine. She climbs the fence, 
feet covering ground, planted on rock. 
I think girl and hear thunder.