It takes many figures to make a daughter.

Following the lines, shadowing the
forms drifting from center,
braincomb cycling through
the seasons, sharp caesarean scissoring
black digits, sharp
numbers dancing toward
a hole no larger than an eye
a hole that listens like
I wanted you
to listen
to the song in the statistics
to the hope in an unbalanced equation
to me.

We are accidental as blood
choking on the prayer of division:
we thank you, lord,
for leaving no remainder

And I have proved
two things; a woman is one
of many vectors,
not necessarily in order.

I have proved two things.

Megan Jones lives and works in Portland, Oregon. Her poetry and prose has appeared in a variety of print and online journals, including Clackamas Literary Review, HOW2, nthposition, The Bryant Literary Review, and Northwest Edge iii: The End of Reality. She is currently at work on her first book-length poetry manuscript.