Oldest Daughter Syndrome Abecedarian

Antidote—
barricade inside your heart’s
chamber.
Don’t unlock for anyone. Remember the July
evening’s ricochet of lightning against the cedar,
fire devouring photo albums,
gnawing the roof—you
hurrying to each bedroom, lifting
into your arms other children without
jackets or shoes. My arms
knotted around your neck. Like Saturn devouring, the flames
left an apology of bone: black rafters.
Move across the country. Lotus child, most
nights you’ll remember our mother’s
oscillating
pacing, her
quiet insomniac shuffle.
Repeat as often as needed,
solemnly, with eye contact,
the word no. Eldest, presumed
unbreakable, ironstone—
vow to know yourself better than anyone.
Wear your name bracelet-like. Time will
xerox you into a mother if allowed. Here,
you blossom in the mud.
Zen. Solitude. You are safe.