As I mow the backyard
with a pushmower
in a teal sportsbra
white wine with ice cubes
waiting for me on the deck,
a middle-aged woman
calls over the fence
looking for Lydia
her teenage daughter.
She looks like me
but a teenager.
Is she missing
I ask, stupidly,
glad I started drinking
in the morning.
She’s not at school
which is where
she’s supposed to be.
Look, the bubble
on my phone
says she’s right here
at your house.
Have I seen
a child
Is there one
hiding in my closet
giggling in the attic
Is there one
raiding my fridge
still sleeping in
did she walk to the park
with my spare key
in her pocket?
Maybe because
I am tired or drunk
or still climbing
out of dreams,
but I wonder,
Where is she?
Where has my child gone?
