Process of natural selection
The daughter is a beast
and the wind makes her
hair stand on end, as the
redwing blackbirds gulp
dark orbs from the holly trees
that grew wild in the yard -

the fence
fell
during the
storm,

and the family
huddled near
the fire when
the power was
out for that
week in January
when Megan
gave birth via
pre-planned cesarian -

they could
not have a child
for years

until the
daughter was
born,

by then
Megan
was already a
teenager,
already valedictorian
with a photo album
of polaroids

avante-garde
faded jeans and
cropped
hair of the nineties
dancing in a semi
circle with grandpa,

this was before
the ominous shade
of the daughters scowl

before the father
was threatening
to break her neck,
before she walked
miles and miles
toward the rain clouds

the daughter
is a beast, she
says to the computer
screen via poem,
as though expression
can be counterproductive

daughter writes on,
reader ingests objectification
like a drug, the words
clog up your soggy veins

the beast sighs, hands
hurt, gives up.