You have two daughters
running in separate directions.
One comes home crying and laughing,
One comes home crying and laughing,
stacking up her lies
with borrowed money,
and the other falls in love with a bluebird,
and the other falls in love with a bluebird,
migrating to warmer climates
to be alone with him.
You lay in bed
You lay in bed
surrounded by dust,
pink floral wallpaper,
and two yellow-eyed cats who are afraid
and two yellow-eyed cats who are afraid
of each other,
and think you have failed.
Later, you remember you had a sister,
and think you have failed.
Later, you remember you had a sister,
that no one spoke of,
who died
in your mother's womb.
And you decide your daughters
And you decide your daughters
have become re-creations
of her,
and failure is something,
inherited.
Cynthia Blank is a poet and student who is graduating from New York University with a degree in Dramatic Literature and Creative Writing. She plans to continue to Master's studies to receive an MFA degree in poetry.