i was a daughter once, i know,
not so long ago, when i
had a mother
with all the answers
and skin that never bruised.

we were close; her
branches around mine,
we’d unravel stories,
in winter’s light, and lay,
in those old mornings
where i felt safe
but branches break.

i was a sister too, a child,
with siblings sleeping, side
by side, in a rose-wine
sea, me – so small, we –
looked-after,
daughters lost and losing
something, someone, sooner
than we thought.

these days, that girl
is gone: sometimes i find
the ghost of her in
photo albums, teddy
bears, bob dylan songs.

i’ve yet to ask my sisters
if they’ve seen her.