Yesterday I had a baby and today I do not. I gave her to a mulberry bush outside the bounds of town. The berries were ripe and she promised to care for her. A black eye, blue haired baby girl, cleaned with fig leaves and smelling of basil, her father's scent long gone to the ocean air. His salt no longer touches my skin or tangles my hair, his babyblack eyes with the saltmine tears don't fall on me in our silent nights.
My baby is a pixie, a halfling, a child of twilight and dawn, moonshine and star-rays. She glowed through my skin, nine months of power and light, she knit herself together out of the best of me and the worst of him. She took his eyes, unnatural onyx, his mangled mane, but clings to my translucent cells, her veins already pulsing beneath thin porcelain skin. Will she cry with his rough sweet voice? Or will she hum with my dragonfly quiet, even in her nightmare screams?
I left my baby under a mulberry bush. She was never mine. She kicked her way free in the witching hour, blinding at me in the garbage backyard, chastising my lack of readiness.Where is my cinnamon incense, my offerings of blood and water, my simmering ashroses?
But mostly:
Where is my father?
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