Asteroidea
You’re mine, she says, stringy arms
trapping my head to her chest.
Mine, with the certainty only a child
can summon, body stretched
over sand-colored sheets like a starfish.
When her father says No, she belongs
to herself, she strikes with sudden
strength, limbs curled and clinging,
and it’s then that I recognize her
claim: the one that, each morning,
I don’t let myself make. Prying
her arms away gently, I steady
her water-blue eyes with mine,
see the depths of us surface,
know it’s true when I say
yes and yes.
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