The Gift Girl
She was an ugly gift turned wonderful,
your eyes shuttered, the gun hard against your cheek,
wind bringing in cold, rain running.
Even now you tear at that angry spot,
but she is a careful child, you found you could love
and hate and love. You want her to own
a safe place, make choices right, discover
the one perfect flower in a volume of weed.
Years later you still hear your frightened whimper,
you still know darkness blotting out thought.
You watch her cross the stage, take a single rose,
flash her brilliant smile. She will always be only yours.
Michael H. Brownstein