The Daughter
       

I found a dead cricket in my underwear,
its arms splayed like a sleeping baby,

and I knew I'd birthed it—my sleeping body
had churned out this angelic dead

made from dreaming & the froth
the body makes when it is denied what it longs for most.

The craving had made a dead thing.

The cricket had the face of my daughter—
a face no one will see. Because I wanted her,

I held my daughter (her ancient
verdigris face) & then I swallowed her whole.

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Copyright © 2022 Katie Schmid All rights reserved
from Nowhere
The University of New Mexico Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission