Fable

An agrarian mother smothered the dream of a daughter and yielded to the parlor where mirrors framed in wood took hold of the room. 

Why would this woman go by the name of mother? 

She sought a pliable mirror she might wad up and toss into a laundry basket? 

How many baskets of folding would it take to keep a daughter clean? 

This strong woman of crops began by supposing risk could not be worth the absence of elation. 

She supped with her husband in tow. 

She might accept the threat of a daughter if said hypothetical female were to plumb the roost. 

The crop fed mother-to-be would not seem that to others who give us our roles our daily whatnot. 

How does shame function as fugue through which to sift innocent enough eludes whose only threat was rust? 

The mother encrusted her fantasy with hard tack lifted from a pocket full of erasers not yet crumbed. 

What other than mimicry were daughters for but to echo the maternal line drive and hold the floor?