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240 pages, Paperback
Published November 21, 2023
words for a daughter i don’t have
i’ll droop your eyelids if you promise to dream of me.
forgive me, but watching over someone all the time
is difficult: sometimes i need to know you’re scared.
once you’ve learned to talk, please give me my name:
just call me dad and you’ll have done a lot.
don’t over-bundle up
in winter: it’s nobler and more useful
to rehearse resistance.
accept candy from strangers,
if you like,
but do learn this as soon as you can:
a bitter aftertaste is far more common, or just being ignored,
and here i don’t mean sweets.
i’ll teach you how to read outside the classroom,
and once it’s time, i hope you can write ocean
on the hallway tiles.
and when you cross the street alone at last
you’ll see that risk and speed
will trail your days forever.
don’t go thinking i’m not an optimist deep down:
you wouldn’t be there otherwise,
taking care that i take care of you.
as you can see, i don’t trust
anyone who doesn’t love
the wonderment of being here, right now.
joy is real, but hurts;
you’ll have to find it for yourself.
and when you do, you’ll fear it.
’As in the market, I would rather
keep the change, be yesterday
remembering tomorrow.
Hard to believe that there’s a place
you can belong to, a rootless tree, a line
with no ground underneath, throbbing invisible,
that traces its own map across my back, that speaks,
hurts, takes flight again.’
’We raged, clutching each others’ hands,
Eros flecked with politics.
And history creaked like hinges,
because the expectation yields the scale
of its own violence.’