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She is the one
who sings in her room
and she is the beat drop
the melody, the bass,
she is the soundtrack
that still fills the home
even when she says nothing at all.

And she is the maker
of chocolate desserts
the one who was given
bitterness and met it
with sweetness
and flame.

She is the laughter
that rises in the dark.
She is the flare,
the generous spark.

She’s the dance, the dancer,
the stage, the shuffle flap ball change,
the pink pointe shoe
worn to the wood.
She is sweat and ovation,
she is barre and plié.

And she is the one who went to school
three days after her brother died.
She is raised hand and science lab,
t-ball and sketch pad,
she is one who thrives.

She is monarch and cocoon,
the bright wings, the wind,
she is the summer land.
She is the one who brings beauty with her.
She is story. Plot. The turning page.
The one with the pen
in her hand.

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New erasers.

Ten pencils, lead number two.

Scent of ripe peaches.

Pent up quiet afternoons.

Callouses on the bottoms

of your feet.

A note from your mother

you’ll pretend

not to read.

The salt lick

of curiosity.

Left over sun.

Blank notebooks, three.

The drop kick

of love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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