When I was 34 and she was 8,
my daughter hit me with a verbal bomb.
In measured tones, with zero wrath or hate,
she said she wanted Julie for her mom.
We’d left her dad but he lived close. They saw
each other every other Saturday
and Wednesday nights, per absent father law,
and so she knew her dad’s new friend.

Dismay
engulfed my heart and overran my brain.
I loved my girl with fervor and respect.
I’d listened to her argue or complain
and cherished her so well she seldom wrecked.

Recalling being young, I choked a moan:
I’d wanted Susan’s mother for my own…