Domestic Daughter

By Marie Anne

The stars are not hereditary. There was once a prism

and drawn in her, the mystic legend of the hore.

The fog has hovered off the coast for weeks.

And given that we march for most coldest of days

you wouldn’t recognize the mounts of dead skin

between the fissures of our caring.

Here’s even more stuff to unpack:

a girl did her best just to pried her mouth open

and they spid in it. Men pass these things on,

probably, because they just hear what the ear recreates.

In Actuality, there are a thousand crimes still not sayable

but because their families have asked

for a minute of silence.

The mind gives the body another card:

because of the cold, there they are, in their pleasure

the mounts of dead skin that belonged to our initial raiment.

Our desires were born under a shooting star

twenty years ahead, and we are still down, on the asking.

It doesn’t matter. The Municipal Palace was a good adventure.

Purple paint in the barriers and the swords. Ducking bridges from a motocycle

that sped in fury at 6 a.m. surrounded by the voices of a wounded feminist group.

So we let you down. I remember, how we did this after the velorios

of eighty-nine different names in a statistic that speeds the murders.

We avenge the crimes still not sayable but just because the priest had asked

for this: domestic daughters quiet and in their knees—

can’t hear the ache when there’s one more minute of silence.

Marie Anne is a finalist of the Wingless Dreamer Publisher’s “BIPOC Issue”; a project aiming to build a lasting solidarity among Black, Indigenous and people of color (2021), as well as a contributor for Moida Magazine’s 2021 Anthology on “Culture”. The core of her projects is to mark the blueprint of her mexican roots, inscribing a vision of our modern culture through powerful stories, poems and reflections. She is currently studying arts management at ITSON University, in Sonora, México, and is a member of the writing group "Letras del Desierto".