Suddenly, rain. Our heads
bowed together like monks
in this hot green place.
I study the slow script
of her movements. The cross
and uncross of her legs,
fingers forking together,
pulling apart. Secret dialect
of her face—a firefly flick
in the iris, lips curling
like kelp. Speak, mother.
Your daughter is listening
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A well texted and nicely thought of poetry. Thanks for sharing and do remain enriched.