I unzip fava beans and pop
them out of their thick shells,
separating them from
what sustained their growth,
as my friend’s son chirps
in his newfound voice.
I palm each fat comma.
I want to fill the world
with daughters not my own
but ones who learn how
to braid, are mesmerized
by stones. Thank God I had
daughters, my mother
would repeat. Until she didn’t.
Some seeds beside ones
that look ready to burst
have shriveled up, my labor
for their flesh in vain.