The father drives,
distant as a mountain,
silent as a mountain is silent,
rich with the secrets
that sit beside him.
The daughter asks:
Where were you born?
What’s your favourite food?
He answers with facts,
each word a lie.
She hears whispers
from the empty seats:
He was born
on the outskirts of death.
His heart longs
for honeycake at midnight.
She has decided:
she will be a river,
will rush along
through the open fields
like an oracle,
telling everyone her secrets.
They will look
into her clear waters
and see the pebbles
and the stones,
the piles of ash
and the mounds of gold.
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