She’s not the special one you thought
would need protection till the end.
She feeds on quarrel when it’s fraught
with rude clichés meant to offend.
You have conceived and borne a whore
who won’t defend you, on her bed.
Eve’s fruit—sweet juice and rancid core—
she leaves you, with a bobbing head,
to rot in barrelfuls of water
you’ll dump, as she sneaks off to play.
She is your one and only daughter,
who used to spread in every way
on nursery walls her tot’s manure.
And you will die, once she’s mature.