For My Daughter
Looking into my daughter’s eyes she reads
my face like a buried book,
picking at the sod, the foreign roots,
the wind overhead, a sea coast
foaming fast ashore,
the night’s black blood frozen solid.
I see her in shorts being chased
by boys for her pretty legs,
her smiles, her many other wiles,
believe me, I am aware she may marry
a bastard, an imbecile, a man devoid
of poetry or place.
I had no daughter but she imagined me
and she persists in her creation
deep in her mother’s angry womb.