I was afraid to love my daughter until one night in May the air was warm the windows open – playing in the tub I had smoothed her silky hair full of suds into a mohawk which curled and cued and flopped at the tips like dorsal fins should never and saw the shape of her head not perfectly round but more potato the grin on her cheeks lopsided unknowing of how fast the world turns frightening how memories, stuck turn a good moment sour and I left the slick hair let her feel a cool head wanted to keep the deep, dark pockets under my eyes and turn invisible so that she could have more. More of everything. I forgot my own face and tenderness stopped hurting. I held it flexed jaws gulped grief said it out loud and it wasn’t that heavy not any heavier than her.
Elizabeth Bolton is a doctoral researcher at the University of Toronto where she studies poetic literacy practices. In addition to poetry she writes narrative and experimental works. Most notably, her stories and poetry have appeared in Open Minds Quarterly, Event, NoD, Wayfarer and Dark Ink Magazines, among others.