“Son,” they called him,
but never a daughter for her.
Her name, overused, while
her bare feet danced
in the dirt—soles hardened
for meals on the table,
hands as coarse as the rugged
pavement of the path
she never crossed.
Her world, as small
as the eggs she fried,
mouths to feed.
A flicker of joy
when the kettle rang.
A little nervous
at the pitter-patter.
Mad, a bit,
when the harvest was late.
A little of everything,
for every milieu.
And at night, she knelt
till numbness hugged her kneecaps.
“Father, Son, …,”
and that made you wonder—
what would she think
if you told her
there’s a mother, too,
and placed in her hands
a stereorama, a glimpse
of a world she never knew?
Would she sigh with relief,
tremble in fear,
or move to run
the rugged path?
Yet we both knew
how slim the chance was—
her feet, rooted,
fertilized with mundanity.
Her head bloomed underground,
no space for stars.
Paracosmic 
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