My child sleeps on her stomach;
one arm crawls over her head
like a swimmer's,
mouth with lush lips
open, a constellation
of moles on her shoulder,
stray stars flung
about the rest of her.
Her breath is a spring breeze
moving curtains, one lock
of hair curls up from her earlobe
to lick the new, rose-lit
earring. With many rings,
bracelets of plastic lace,
I watch her gaily skirt the foothills
of adolescence, just poised
to make the climb; still
the mountain looms
and she sleeps
in its deep green shadow.
                        

Newly freed from high school
my daughter spends her evenings
alone in the living room 
with Grey’s Anatomy. Life 
is so different now, classes 
at odd times, friends scattered 
like jacks. Opaque as ever, 
a deep well, she rests on the sofa 
in blue TV light. I can almost see 
her wings developing, intricate, 
folded like an origami moth 
within her close cocoon.
                        

She wouldn't even try 
the blackberries we found 
growing hot and juicy 
beside the train tracks 
near the campground. 
She was eight, and only 
ate food that was white 
or chocolate. 

Ten years later we are guests 
at a winery. Though the grapes 
are spoken for, blackberries 
spill over trellises by the reservoir 
and along the driveway. 
Early mornings I spy deer,
tender and shy in their large
and powerful bodies,
nibbling at the berries.

My child is vegan now, 
which for her is mostly about 
what she doesn't eat, but hunger 
has opened her mind a crack. 
On the morning we leave,
I watch her gathering black fruit 
into her mouth, her dancer's body 
pressing against the canes—
strong, agile, like a deer
unaware of her power.