She can see it bruise
the horizon, then erupt
– like a mother
striking a daughter,
like the electricity
between the surfaces
of her palms, or between
two women repelled.
The storm rears,
poised to thunder –
there is no moment for grief.
—-A hit tree, split
but not broken,
will survive the wound
will grow around it – the scars
resemble cumulus –
will bear fruit the shape of a daughter,
that even before falling,
is rotten somehow.
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