Sphinx
the hydrangea with its small eyes,
myths of those blinded
and those who quarreled,
I am the daughter with small eyes.
I am the archer, the child
with questions. I am the girl
who runs away, praying
to take root someplace.
If it is white lined, he might
see it. If it is rustic, he likes
to look at how it is made.
Walnut has a fine grain.
Catalpa hangs with bait.
The pawpaw bears fruit
that, timed right, tastes
of cream. Do you believe me?
Or has that been wiped clean?
We walk down the lane
to the wild cherry, and he can’t
find its name. But he remembers
Carolina and the mountains
he found by chance one spring,
the kite we flew in the meadow,
with its paper tail, its string.
Do you remember? he asks me,
beloved daughter of his body,
woman’s head on a lion’s frame.