My daughter flies, with her hair she soars
over the day lilies
the swing rising and falling
her feet dragging through tangled stems
orange trumpets bowing low.
She sees mirrors in little things everywhere,
the back of a spoon, a water tap
the shiny surface of a newly cleaned window
she delights in everything shiny
delves into my jewel box.
Curious, she fingers my wedding band
a side diamond recently lost
leaves an empty socket -
she draws from me another story
agile as a tattoo artist
with an electric needle
though she doesn’t want it to be love.
I tell her of the shirtless fat man
heaving a refrigerator, his back
towards me, two angels facing closely
with four wings feathers and scales
falling over folds of his skin.
She is sure his angels must talk at night
fly around his house
misplacing scissors, combs, cigarettes.
Perhaps they will come to ours
startle the dishes
and locate the missing diamond.
She reckons if they looked real hard
among the day lilies with their frumpled heads
or through the crumbs on the kitchen table
covered with the blue and white cloth
they might find it very small and mirror-like,
radiant as a solitary feather
fallen from a set of wings.