A Daughter
I bore a daughter,
naked as an oak in winter.
As unstricken.
Her pink feet pelted the sidewalk.
I watched from a shell
of concrete and glass.
Our house.
I knocked on the glass,
waved her indoors.
Asked if she wanted a sister.
Looked in a mirror.
I wore
a green dress, a velvet cloak.
A hood hooded my eyes.
A Lion
There was a lion
in the parking garage.
Very snarly,
fairly large.
He ate the drivers
en route to their cars,
leapt at me—
then stopped.
He dropped like a coin,
splayed like a fan
at my feet.
“I can pray too”
I said and wept.
My tears starred
the concrete
like camouflage.
— Stephanie Yue Duhem is writing out of Austin, TX. She can be found online @nameandnoun or at www.sydpoetry.com.