My daughter reads my

Poems with her eyes closed

Sees our days as thunder

When our family speaks

Their critical, zapping words

Only when passing in her

Dream white sailboat do we speak

Sometimes of proms promising

Nothing but disquieted womanhood  

Or around every corner

Her cigarette quickly lit

She is embarrassed by my frilly skirts

Maroon flip flops and sitting alone

Slouched over tea, dry bread

Wishing her on a white sailboat

Dragging islands one at a time

Until strung together

She brings them home, sees

They are like my sheets on the line

 — Judith Croxford