Daffodils

Daffodils

Little weeds dressed in turpentine shine,
necks drooping like the arches on bridges,
like the stillborn, all grayish yellow
and wrinkly baby hands, milk sour sweet.
I finger the limp stems and avow, if I in fact
had a daughter rooted inside me, I’d rip her out.
Little weed, worming mole, dirt under my nails
I scrape out with a bent paperclip all pink
and fancy like her girl parts and my girl parts.
Little girl, little mine and not mine, you float
blobby matter, mattering little as the seasons dwindle.