Miriam

When the sun rises,
I think of the daughter I do not have.
Her curls, like mine,
like her grandmother’s
great-grandmother’s,
shine red in the sharpness of September suns
and glow raven on Winter nights.

I think of the daughter I do not have,
using books as sandbags,
holding up windows, walls, earth.
Curled over needle and thread,
embroidering a family history,
into a bullet-proof vest,
Helen’s stitches of blood-red guilt
pricking the tip of memory.

When the sun sets,
I dream of the daughter I do not have.
Who will never feel the seasons change;
Who will only know the ocean as a black hole
breathing in plastic:
plastic in the water, plastic in her lungs.

I dream of the daughter I do not have.
Who strains at the leash of politeness,
Presses one to talk to a real person,
listens as they disconnect her service,
and drain her of funds.

I dream of the daughter I do not have.
Who crunches ash and embers under her feet
walking home.
Never at night.
Never alone.

When the sun rises, I think of the daughter I do not have.
Infant frame lowered into the basket,
Mother’s kiss on her sleeping brow.
Sent in her brother’s place,
she floats down the last clean river,
dreaming of the daughter,
she does not have.

Fiona Wilkes is a current PhD Candidate at The University of Western Australia specialising in English & Literary Studies. A fierce feminist, her work focuses on the plights of women & queer folk of the past, present and future. Her creative works have been accepted for publication by Westerly Magazine, Millennial Pulp Literary Magazine, The Elevation Review, LEON Literary Review, Lily Poetry Review, ratbags art collective and Pelican Magazine. She was a featured writer at the 2022 National Young Writers Festival.