Sati Mookherjee
MY DAUGHTER THE TREE
My daughter was born the year she turned
fourteen, the year I was born, her spine rose
curving into the tissue of sky, she spurned
true for lordotic, posture for pose.
I told myself: What doesn’t bend, breaks.
She lived right by the gaping well. Was born
the year of the tree – I used to rake
the fat fallen leaves, praying. I’ve shorn
shoots, pulled off wire-sharp vines, scratched
its bark as tenderly as if she were mine.
Because she was mine, I mean. Combed the thatch
of her hair, washed and slept on wet, kind
of like mine. But really nothing like mine.
I regard her, wide-eyed. Hapless as moonlight.
Originally published in MER 23
Sati Mookherjee is the author of the poetry collections Eye (Ravenna Press, 2022) and Ways of Being (Albiso Award, MoonPath Press, 2023). Recent work appears in Tupelo Quarterly, Gulf Coast Journal and Northwest Review. Recipient of an Artist Trust / Washington State Arts Commission Fellowship, she serves on the Board of Directors of Cascadia International Women’s Film Festival. Please visit at satimookherjee.com.