My daughter is all angles and long lines.
Flinging herself out there
with knees like a colt’s—
Normal Rockwell would have loved to paint her.
Those edges cut what she hits up against.
Seven years, eleven months,
she’s done with growing up.
She’s picking out her car,
naming her cat—
how many more months until college? She asks.
She’s ready to feel her baby crown.
It’ll hurt, yes,
but she knows the hurt she can choose