Edith, our daughter
Not so much, dear one
just a sunken lullaby on the
tongue, a lemony kiss
before moonlight, before
you are unleashed from us,

afterward, poetry
will take the shape of
your face, a profile in
oblong shape, large-eyed
mother, daughter,
granddaughter, generations
of the same sort of
females moongazing.

Dear one,
dear one,
my womb is always open to you.