Daughter
I close on your wrist
as you trudge ahead.
We are in a landscape that is not yet resuscitation.
Your eyes find me over your shoulder and I exhale, I hold
the hope you cannot. Here is my hand
as we uncurtain Oz and board the basket
under the balloon, wind whipping your long
dark hair like the wild waves below
us, waiting. If the burner dies,
do not look down—
I Watch The Great British Baking Show
to keep from wondering if my daughter will want to live,
communing in cardamom cake and meringue ribbons
while air flows through the tent bidding me to release my breath,
so that it doesn't matter if the macarons crack
and madeleines cave, for even if asked to leave the tent
we will return to open arms. We are masters of our craft
forgiven and true with our flour and butter and the Queen
and the great green flowing field—
