Every Other Weekend

My daughter climbs inside the car
with her "been away" persona

distant and matter-of-fact inflected.
I play it cool, heart fibrillating under

a breast that once bled and blistered: her sucking
broke the blood vessels under her fine, translucent cheeks.

My kisses--thrown off-course by a turned shoulder;
like a grave rubbing, her tiny spine imprints itself

on her nylon tank top. My finger plays the bumps.
She wiggles away as if to perch on the window's edge.

She watches the trees whiz by, clasping her daughterly loyalty
to the man who tired of my yelps as she fed.

Silence fills up the interior like water.
I fix my gaze on the rising crescent moon.


published in the 2006 Albion Review