Prodigal Daughter

Slurring her words Our habit is home- A daughter unstitched Six years of silence Our daughter is home A stranger with arms out A mother again Asleep Daughter, deliver me from questions Asleep in the family museum Home is the high note At the edge of our range We climb an octave Collapse into childhood In your first hiding place The floorboards still groan Where the homesick might gather Together, alone Six years I paid rent to your shadow Deliver me from my questions And my need to ask them