It was in a valley of sunflower

blooms when the maid, the mother and the crone

came to our door. They called you out. “Daughter”

is a word hard enough to shatter stone

so now all I have left are broken rocks.

I am fine with the rites and all we do,

but not this. First they cut off your dreadlocks,

tattooed your skull, gave you a sword, taught you

how to kill. My daughter now makes chaos

kneel and beg but was taken one spring day,

leaving nothing for my arms to hold tight

but air. I wait for you, love, so that my loss

might be found. You’ll always be my blessed, fey

child; not some blood-soaked woman, dying knight.