missing daughter...
no, not one of the faces
you see
on a milk carton...
missing daughter...
my daughter...
being missed by me,
  mother,
not like the missing pair of shoes
you wear only once,
  maybe twice a year,
I mean missing
the ones that are so well-worn
they fit around your feet
like the feel of warm sand or,
or,
the soft back of your cat you
mindlessly caress with your toes...
that kind of missing,
like those missing gloves,
not the long black cotton pair
you picked up at a brunch table
left by some elegant woman
who you thought
some fine Sunday morning
you could pretend to be,
no,
no,
I mean those gloves you keep
comfortably rolled in the pocket of
your everyday jacket...
the ones you finger nervously
even when not on your hands,
you know the ones
that hold years of memory
at worn seams,
and have life without your hands,
yes,
yes,
  that sort of missing
that the heart does without missing
a beat...
the kind of missing that at each
pulse of your blood
it's reminded of
the ropey umbilical
that joined two female rivers,
one, a tiny stream,
one, that followed the sea,
that kind of missing...
you can’t explain in a goddamn poem,
because this kind of missing
has no words.