Fossil

My daughter’s life line is long, coursing past the arc of thumb,
curving down to wrist, feathering into tributaries of blue vein.
I think of her in seventy years, when I am gone, when the cradle
of her hand has cupped so much water that the salt and tide
of it remains in her skin and leaves a fossil, a curled imprint
like a fetus nestled under a mother’s right rib, feet and hands
in her mouth, sucking before she is even born. I like to think
I gave her this rich riverbed in the womb, this map downstream,
but I know nothing of geology, or of current and wind.

***

Michelle S. Lee is an assistant professor of composition, literature, and creative writing at Daytona State College.  She earned her Doctorate in English Literature and Master’s in Creative Writing from the University of Texas at Austin.  Michelle has published fiction and poetry in a variety of print and online journals, including Bateau Press, Fickle Muses, pacificREVIEW, and 580Split.

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