by Mary Romero
My eldest sinks towards me
a wilted lily
blushed with rage.
The older girls
have passed her over.
I fold her
into my arms,
longer than hers
only for a little longer,
and let her punch
her bruised pride
onto my chest,
knowing these pains
are easily
remedied.
I lean against the oak pew
while she shakes,
study the Celtic cross:
addition sign
encircled, wonder
what it will take
to envelop her
when the pain is
irreconcilable.