the jackalope

would the silence be cruel
if it were your daughter?
unable to articulate
the edges of her body,
or the careful ways
it’s deceived her.

and is the silence still cruel
if it were your daughter?
who traded truth for
a sisterhood
she cradled in the dark
and kept her small.

what if it were your daughter?
fawning, like prey
to their gaze—
a fleeting terror,
a primal knowing:
it’s all her fault.