Emari DiGiorgio, Giving My Daughter the Bird

She points up–index finger raised, as if she’s testing the breeze

or about to give a speech. The little soldier upright, first

to volunteer, politely interrupting, chastising–no-no, dear,

that isn’t it. The middle one. I show her: unfurling

the finger like a switchblade, the rest of my hand a fist.

Her eyes, a smile. I begin my own sermon: A Brief History

of the Roman Digitus Impudis, or Though Shall Not

Brandish It at School. But what does it mean? she asks. I deflect.

Baby, trust me, your teacher will call Principal Montague.

In the rearview, I spy her snarl framed by her booster’s headrest,

a tiny judge holding court in my backseat. Okay, I sigh.

It means fuck you. Sharp crack of consonants. The f-word

not forbidden in our house, reserved for grease burns and cat piss

in shoes. She doesn’t know it as the body’s heaving, ass slap

and heavy breathing. Though now, I’ve given her a silent dart,

millennia old, the same one used to mark a forehead with dust

and spit before casting a spell. My regret: that she’ll swallow

her rage when she raises the small flag of her finger and others

will disregard its ascent, the air it’s stirred, mistake her silence

for surrender. So let it be a “one-finger victory salute.”

Let her teach her friends: Kendra, Allie, Ja’Miyah, Viviana–

a pack of kindergarten cubs roving the playground

two fucks curled in their fists. This bus line can have one.

And the nurse with her warm apple juice hustling them back

to class with a bellyache and this busted pencil that never

sharpens right and that kid who strips crayons of their jackets

and breaks them all and whoever leaves pee on the seat.

Let these girls sculpt Play-Doh castles with middle finger

turrets and unicorns guarding the gate; let them be

shameless and wild, an unapologetic chorus.