dreamt of my baby again, her skull
making geometry of my skin, my skin
cradling her. in dreams my skin
can’t break, just my voice, and I never
seem to talk. the simple telepathic
knowing of dreams. my arms miss her
never having held her, never will.

but all of them, all of the daughters
I’ve abandoned by waking, I do love
them. all of the daughters because
daughters only give birth to daughters.
and don’t tell me about changing
of minds when I love them, don’t tell
of love I already know.

love that’s already been inside of me
by force of this daughter mind. this mind
of rose yarn and botanic perfume, it will
always know that baby. it will send dreams
of her, both fetal and grown with pink fixing 
hands of her own, like holiday cards:
greetings from what could have been!