My Daughter Moves Home

and she falls on the bed like dust. I feed her
floor polish for a week, smoothed thick
on toast. By Monday, she smells like butter
and oranges again. Tuesday, her toes
and brown eyes are warm. She moves in
slow circles across the kitchen on Wednesday
as she reaches for a spoon. By Thursday
her dark hair is glowing softly, and Friday
afternoon winks like walnut in a square of sun.
On Saturday she skates in socks down the
hallway, her laugh and arms outstretched,
breathing beeswax and cedar. Sunday
morning, she puts on her coat, lipgloss, and
steps out of the varnished front door,
the world so bright I can see my face in her.