The Grass-Children
Bridget Groff
when she was conceived, she moved mountains,
and the wind whistled in tune
with the grass-children.
but slowly and gently my insides melted,
and nothing of nature was left inside
my vanilla skin.
next to the orchids grasping their vines,
she, too, stretched her roots
so she could scream out kindly
the way the trees told her to do,
but she found that her roots dissolved
once they touched the summer air.
from then on, i needed someone else
to be my mirror, so that i could search
for her in warm eyes and in such small hands.
but is that a sin? is it really, truly a sin?
to replace one’s blood with that of another?
to pray that he sees her in your eyes, too,
and thinks of the 7th daughter?
to pray that he sees her in your eyes, too,
and thinks of the 7th daughter?
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