Prepare the fatted calf. Again.

I have been the prodigal daughter
exactly twenty-five times,
once a year since my belly
expelled stolen merlot.

Bring me the echo
I lost in grade school,

sixth, I think,

when my mother cut my hair
from waist to chin.
I want those cast strands
to knit into a book
I can read at midnight
when I fear I won't return.

I have been the prodigal daughter
exactly twenty-five times,
including two stints in choir

now that's cheap rehab

where I sung alto
to chipped cement saints,
let the communion wafers
cleave to my palate
like chunky peanut butter.

Give me my voice,
the timbre I dropped
in a box canyon
layered with insult,
a sandstone parfait.

I have been the prodigal daughter
exactly twenty-five times,
like the twenty-five pounds
I gained between the deaths of my parents.

I offer God a pound today
a pound a week,
flesh to swap for forgiveness.