Anna Frances Conway, Contributor.
The bone structure
the eyes like cotton balls
the nose like the ace of spades
one tear cascades and I don’t
know how to catch it.
It’s not mine; I can’t pull the
think back into her pink socket
the little darling thing, taut as a spring
can barely tie her shoe, one step closer
to the black tasting blue
Not quite made of me, not quite
made of you, arms like
dandelion flaps pull up and
green pools in white specks
dance and catch on you
and children don’t take well to glue
My body convulses like a dying animal
trying to reach you
You’ve turned blue in the fleshy hills,
so your scalp holds daffodils.