A Daughter's Lament
By. Ashley Wheat
On Friday’s I search
For your face in mirrors,
visiting bars soft lit by streams of
sapphire bulbs; by eight-o’clock
three, four, five drinks in—
your inaudible voice finds its way
through the other end
of a passerby’s phone.
As autumn approaches,
And the leaves transition to mimic
the auburn hair you once had
as a child before the sun
stripped it from you
and gave it to me.
The songs we used to sing,
dance parties to Prince in our pj’s;
I drown my skin in your tie-dye t-shirt
two sizes too big, with holes
sprinkled on the stomach,
the chest—
Still the blood-filled grocery bag
slumped in your lap
on the drive to the hospital
stains my mind most of all;
when you told me not to speed
right before you
passed out.
But now I can’t remember
your eyes, your smile
that only I saw;
your home—
a marble vase that weights heavy
of bone and dust atop the piano.
Oh, how I want to feel whole again,
to dance like I was a child
before the light dimmed
from my eyes
when it escaped
from yours.
Ashley Wheat is Oklahoma born and raised, but grew up in the Ozark mountains with her father (her muse), and the deer that roamed their backyard. She is a published poet and is the Chief Editor and Design Director for The Oklahoma Women’s Journal, a submission based magazine that helps give women a voice, and share their beautiful work with the world. For her day job she works in the fire division at a disaster restoration company, and helps restore people’s lives after they’ve experienced the worst day of their life. She also helped start up Women in Restoration—a feature for the company that highlights its backbone: women. In her free time she loves spending time with her friends, playing horror video games with her boyfriend, and running around their new backyard with her dog, Daisy.
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