Prodigal Daughter

Slurring her words

Our habit is home-

A daughter unstitched

Six years of silence

Our daughter is home

A stranger with arms out

A mother again

Asleep

Daughter, deliver me from questions

Asleep in the family museum

Home is the high note

At the edge of our range

We climb an octave

Collapse into childhood

In your first hiding place

The floorboards still groan

Where the homesick might gather

Together, alone

Six years I paid rent to your shadow

Deliver me from my questions

And my need to ask them