When Daughters Become Women
Michelle Orsi | Poetry
I could call all of this weather, the sun sewing ribbons
in the snow, but first, as fathers, I think it’s important
that we let all the little girls come inside and shed
their deaths like coats, let all the little coats scatter
their snow and their mud and their throats. And then,
if we feel like it, maybe we should let them drop
all of their bags and their laughs and their teeth. Later,
if the girls are still cold, we can always let them sit a bit
closer to the fire, let them soak in the last of its heat.
It’s not winter, not yet, although some are saying
there’s no such thing as winter this year, or any year,
for that matter. Today may have been somebody’s birthday,
but the balloons on the floor deflated years ago,
and sometimes birthdays can be just a little too neat.
Tomorrow we might all be dead, but at least today
we can watch the snow unspool on the floor,
watch the girls spill their suns as sleet.
Michelle Orsi lives in Los Angeles, where she is pursuing her PhD in Creative Writing & Literature at the University of Southern California. Her most recent work can be found or is forthcoming in journals such as Ploughshares, Five Points, and DIAGRAM, among others.