Death's Daughter

I was not taken. I was chosen.

Not stolen from the light —

born where the light ends.

My father does not carry a scythe.

He carries a ledger, a garden,

a quiet house with all the lights on

for those who are afraid to come home.

I learned early how to be gentle

with heavy things.

How to hold a name in my mouth

without dropping it.

They call me morbid,

as if grief were not a kind of love

that stayed too long.

As if remembering

were not holy work.

I braid flowers for the ones

no one visits anymore.

I sweep the paths between stones.

I know every birthday, every middle name,

every song they hummed while doing dishes.

I am the one who waits at the threshold

when the crossing is too wide.

I say — It's alright, look at me.

I have been here since the beginning.

You know my face.

My hands are not cold.

They are the temperature of earth after rain.

Of a forehead kissed goodnight.

Of a pocket holding a stone for luck.

My father taught me not to rush them.

No one is late here.

No one is forgotten.

We have all the time that time took from them.

And when I am not working,

I sit in his garden.

The pomegranates are always in season.

I read. I am, after all,

still someone's daughter.

I am not cruel. I am not kind.

I am constant.

The last daughter at the door,

holding it open,

until every single one

is home.

- LR 🖤