FIRST BLOOMING

Last night I dreamed my grown
daughter into a child.
Twelve again.  She peels back
robin’s-egg sheets and creeps
into my bed.  

My arms open to her curl.
Spine imprinted--genetically cast with mine.  
I breathe when she does
breathe until the cradle
of my heart rocks with her rhythm.

A sigh bubbles from the bony wings
of her shoulders.
I weave a nest of her hair.
Bright yellow strips of cotton
through silken, chestnut threads.

My womb presses against her.
Two vines, twine to this bed.
An unborn face prints on every leaf,
roots branching out into bone.  

But if I speak of this, she will awaken
a woman, her long neck bent,
the supple stem of a wildflower.
Longing, like a savage wing,
beats across the blue beneath us.