After April Rain
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.