I can believe it if you say it long enough:

that we are golden, that all is well, that

things turn out ok, that this doesn’t have

to happen, that it is happening: my father,

all bones & tufts of hair & loosening skin,

uneven, staggering, making his way across

the room as though his body were parts only,

strung, the beads we wove into a necklace

for the birth of my daughter, each one clacking

against the last as a woman told me something

beautiful that would happen for my baby & me

back when her body was enslaved to my body,

before I knew her or her strength or that soft skin

I would tear someone’s eyes out to protect.

But now my father’s bones click apart while hers click together

and it becomes a circle, as if he is about to jump off

the string to make room for her small body to exist,

as if there isn’t enough room on this earth in my heart

for both.