through her bedroom window / a swollen
thud on the forest floor/ her landing a thing
of theatrics / a rehearsal of flight /
a disciple of handing things over / & hurried
movement / her body shape still molded /
in the mattress / still swaying with heat /
her breath cut in the air with mint
& stale coffee / the mother has no excuse /
to not know / to not sense this ecstatic exodus /
the door was always slightly open / enough
to catch the sun prism on pink carpet /
enough to think the daughter has finally /
taken up the mother’s habit for hibernation /
hazing in & out of sleep
for days / & the mother shutters the bedroom /
locks the door / chokes on the key / antiques
the room as tomb for the daughter / lets the spine
of every book farm more dust / a locked
room locks a time capsule / & the daughter’s howling
lost in the forest / each new wing translucent /
pulsing with new breath
