On Wanting to Tell [ ] About her Daughter by Melissa Campana

On Wanting to Tell [ ] About her Daughter

How those small dimples are always around.

You know, those that hold tiny gems under

Her high Cherokee cheeks when she’s smiling.

And we even see them on Mother’s Day

Well, only in the pictures she puts up

Of the two of you with her birthday cake

The candles burning, and blurring their lots

With the flash-radiating from your red,

Red hair-matching hers. She is missing you.

On your birthday, she puts up another

One of the two of you, with your red hair.

But every March when that day comes around,

She puts one up from Bras for a Cause walk,

Or one from the many other functions

That we have all taken part in over

Your last six years and the two since you passed.

She shows off your bandana, and how much

You fought when you were told there was no chance.

She always tells people how you made it

Four years longer than what was expected

And that she loves you for truly being

A mother.  One that we all wish was here

To see the difference her daughter has made

In each of our lives and in our high school.

She talked me off the edge our freshman year

She called me when I had blood all over

And invited me to go to the lake.

We were only acquaintances from class

But she heard the pain in my voice and rushed

Over.  She told me all about her mom

And her alcoholic, cheating father.

And made me realize that life is worth it

Even through all the heartbreak and anger.

Because every once in a while you find

A perfect mosaic, like your daughter.

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On Wanting to Tell [ ] about a Girl Eating Fish Eyes

BY MARY SZYBIST

—how her loose curls float

above each silver fish as she leans in

to pluck its eyes—

You died just hours ago.

Not suddenly, no. You'd been dying so long   

nothing looked like itself: from your window,   

fishermen swirled sequins;   

fishnets entangled the moon.

Now the dark rain   

looks like dark rain. Only the wine   

shimmers with candlelight. I refill the glasses

and we raise a toast to you   

as so and so's daughter—elfin, jittery as a sparrow—

slides into another lap   

to eat another pair of slippery eyes   

with her soft fingers, fingers rosier each time,   

for being chewed a little.

If only I could go to you, revive you.

You must be a little alive still.   

I'd like to put this girl in your lap.

She's almost feverishly warm and she weighs   

hardly anything. I want to show you how   

she relishes each eye, to show you

her greed for them.   

She is placing one on her tongue,

bright as a polished coin—   

What do they taste like? I ask.

Twisting in my lap, she leans back

sleepily. They taste like eyes, she says.