Daddy's arm hooks me
down the long isle
of carpet and bows.
I float on his arm
bedecked in a pristine white
that is not true.
Like a pretty prize or a baton,
I am passed.
The third finger on my left hand,
poor thing, already the weakest,
accepts its golden noose.
My name is rolled
into a bottle of sinking pebbles
and flung into the sea.
But I
am carried off to breathe
under a pile of
diapers and silverware.
kmb 12/01
