Poetry

Daddy’s Girl, #8 by Summer Young

Your torch makes the rain

which plunges to its death

like fireflies

plunging to their death

not that I’ve seen fireflies

I suspect this is where we might find them

in the forest

or by the box of giraffe toys

or the football shirt you got me

before I knew my times tables

we had something in common

it brushed my knees when I wore it

I turn in the mud

thinking of excuses

for the mother who hates you

leave my parcel,

your parcel, of things

in a shallow grave

moulded from mud,

cardboard sagging in the rain.


Follow Summer on Twitter at @MissYoungWriter and on Instagram at @summerrbelle.

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