Beneath the sternum
where ribs are brushed up,
three strands are strung
through the spindles of a breathing cage,
though knot pulled tight, unsewn and so,
the right marrow never knows the
left in the shape of an inverted V,
like the wet sand that moves
to make room for the ripples,
encroaching from a body of water,
up the body of a daughter,
parting her need to be a better debtor,
exposing the bloody side of her skin
as payment and proof that she is
no better than a dead daughter
to any mother,
nor earthly father.
