He faked my death,
set up this ranch
far from my three
daughters. Suburban
hell-hole. With bracelet
on ankle, house-
arrest. At noon
the bully sun
shoulders a ripe
moon. In the dark
soaps reign. The anchors
will often flash
their glitterati
weddings. Not one
daughter has birthed
the heir. In vitro—
be damned. I hose
the lawn and count
the cars like fish
slipping their shiny
chrome along asphalt.
Which sparrow missed?
Cordelia—
my gutted heart.