There Will Be No More Daughters

No nail to spark the fires, no waists

to nip in. There will not be cookery or

starguide, no petite or hardiness in lace,

hardly an elegance. No celebrities for

the TV. No dogeared books on floral

arrangement or patched socks, no darned

socks, no such darn thing. There will be

no more metal for the challenge.

There will be no more disaster of the street

signs. No treecrash or clunker, no perfume for

I Met You Then, of the hour, the whole hour,

needing more. There will not be timekeeping.

No luncheon on the knoll. No moors, definitely

not more than one. No Marnie. There will

be no more daughters. There will be no

more turquoise colonnade, no wallpaper worth

getting used to. No sticky toffee pudding.

Or plane ride of reward. Absolutely no thievery.

No sly cunning. There will be no wolves

and honeylapping. No desire. Not any

psychoanalytics. Nor the unstitching

or misreading of lips. There will not be

a breakfast. The oatmeal must stay cold.

No fixing of the bared and broken. No marking

the trails yellow. There will be no more

horses. There will be no more daughters. Not

a single Daisy or a path, no guidance. No bluemoon,

bluemilk, or bluish undertones. No I’d Like

to Get to Know You Better. There aren’t

any first dates here. There will be no more.

Not an Elissa. No plus or minus, no excess.

Not any malignant. No adherent or marrow

to remind anyone’s alive. Not anyone at all,

no more alive than the stick-in-the-mud.

There won’t be mud. There won’t be a need.

There will be no more daughters. Never

a driver, no reaching, no end of the line

no peach, no sweetno taste of You and Me,

no plumnothing neat. No sewing tidily.

No hem holding. No one getting handsy.

There won’t be a truth or toothsome.

No, not an ounce or fling of it. Not a

pining for, never an I Would Do to You This

or That. There will never be pleat, no hat;

never long; not soft. Never Yes You Can,

Just This Once. There will not be any more

skirmish, no getting high beneath the bleachers.

No sweaters. No feeling up and not

a feeling at all. Dumb for the embrace of

nothing. No firing or fiction. Wrecked

and No I Liked You Better When. Not ever.




Cover of the Spring 2015 The Literary Review Christine Larusso’s work has appeared in Women’s Studies Quarterly, Narrative Magazine, The Awl, Apogee, Sycamore Review, and Pleiades—where she appeared as a featured poet. She is a graduate of New York University’s MFA program, thanks to a generous Starworks Fellowship, and was selected by Carmen Giménez Smith as the 2017 winner of the Madeleine P. Plonsker Emerging Writer’s Residency Prize. She lives in Los Angeles and is a producer for Rachel Zucker’s podcast, Commonplace.


“There Will Be No More Daughters” originally ran in TLR: Do You Love Me?