Of All the Metaphors for Being a Daughter
I’m drawn to the strangler fig’s
cosmic swirl of execution, aerial
trapeze artist mining down through
the body. And who am I to pretend
I have any stake in that death:
dissolving nutrients, nonconsensual
sacrifice, melted trunk a banquet
while the whole canopy looks on,
quiet in growth. The silent dissolution,
and after, nothing but soil made richer
for the disappearance. Reader,
which one daughter, which one
mother? Repeat after the YouTube
subtitles: hemi-parasitic, which is to say
split / reliance, which is to say keystone
species, more abundance than murder,
at the end of the day. All I know
is that forest must be rammed
with oxygen and rot. And look,
a few burgeoning fruit that will soon
house another death, only this one
volunteered: a mother digs herself
into that sweet, wet heart, all thrash
and surrender, wings stripped
from the muscular body. And so
two lives—no, a whole chattering
universe, stuffed with sugar.
These days, everyone’s dying
for a little more life. Yes, my kingdom—
though I could see her coming for miles,
long before I knew my body
had an endpoint, long before
I knew that finish line was a thin
tuft of seed, glossy, slick with bird shit,
anchoring herself into me,
where soon she’d wrap her legs,
fingers, every inch around
this one long, lichened self.
On Having a Daughter
Instead of any child, I’ll carry thistle
bulbs, purple and rubbing against—
or the seed of a banyan, quiet, sturdy,
waiting. My therapist draws an angel
card for childbearing, and I laugh.
My god, consider the self-effacing lessons
I might pass on, blurring the outlines
of the body. How much would I disappear
into that small creature? I am desperate
just to be one whole self: the long uphill
summoning, pulling burrs from hair
and teeth. Everyone around me
seems to be stretching their skin
into slingshots to hurdle themselves
into the future, extend their bodies
beyond one lifetime, into that dangerous
dark orb of collision. Don’t take me there.
This planet, our one awfully managed
self, this mote of dust, stuttering
across the stratosphere
like a drunk beetle. For now,
I’ll watch the gummy mess of me
fall into the toilet bowl each month, happy
dissolution. Head bracketed by knees,
when I peer in, I spy the pale tip
of a finger—no, one translucent root
burrowing her fine long muscle.
ZOË FAY-STINDT (she/Z/they) is a queer, bicontinental poet with roots in both the French and American South. Their poetry has appeared in museum galleries, on the radio, on the streets of small towns, in community farm newsletters, and other strange and wonderful places. Z’s work has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and has been featured or is forthcoming in RHINO Poetry, Muzzle, VIDA Review, Ninth Letter, and elsewhere. She lives in Ames, Iowa, where she is an MFA candidate at Iowa State University and co-managing editor for the environmental writing journal, Flyway.