When the dogwood in our yard drips dry,

pink blooms erupt like wounds. Knowing me, 

my brother once said, be sure to live outside

of sadness. I craved storms the way some were 

addicted to drugs or horses, I adored

the word flank for its military muscle.

On my left sits gloom, on my right 

the memory of a Buddhist monk.

He was passing through town. I made 

an appointment. About my daughter, 

he said, she will do what you do. After that, 

I sought silver linings without edges

sharpened, drank chamomile tea, 

kept a journal until I turned coward. 

Finding my daughter in the bathroom, 

I calculate our odds and press a cloth

to her arm. She drops the blade in a corner

crammed with dirty laundry. I couldn't speak

until now. No longer captive to her grief, 

my daughter points to full moons and horses 

clustered in a mountain field, hooves 

carving columbine. She climbs the fence, 

feet covering ground, planted on rock. 

I think girl and hear thunder.