MY DAUGHTER RISES EARLY

 

My daughter rises early, and after gulping down

her breakfast cereal, begins to rummage

through her large collection of stuffed animals,

piled one on top of another in an oversized

plastic bucket, spilling over from the edges of

her bed, hiding silently in dusty corners.

She asks for two large bags, having decided, between

breakfast and getting dressed for school,

that most -- if not all of them -- must go.

So it's goodbye to the giggling Elmo, to raccoon,

and to Bear, who we left that time, and found again

safe and sound at the desk of our public library,

goodbye to Fred and Angelina, that kind pair of cats,

who must -- she reminds me -- stay together,

lest they be unhappy for the next child they are with;

the idea of another kid finding joy and comfort

makes her happy, which makes me feel somewhat

embarrassed by my sorrow, this sense of loss,

as if something living were being shown the door,

their painted eyes looking back at the rooms

they are leaving so soon, this kingdom of childhood

they, too, thought would last just a bit longer.

WITH APOLOGIES TO DR. WILLIAMS

 

So much depends upon

the stuffed mouse,

frayed and

covered in cat spit,

hidden within a blue

running shoe

at the start of day.

CARRYING MY DAUGHTER TO BED

 

My daughter, so proud lately of her lengthening limbs

and muscles, still asks, on most evenings,

to be carried to bed, which -- amazingly, though

with no small effort -- I am still able to do.

Long gone are the days of lifting her with ease,

as though moving one of my own limbs,

absentmindedly, up or down, gone now the special hold

I somehow stumbled upon when her wailing --

as if the entire anguish of the world had

been condensed into one elongated vowel --

simply could not be consoled, her small and fragile

body held out before me, head resting snugly

in the palm of my hand, her torso fitting perfectly

into my forearm, her flat and skinny feet,

not yet having touched upon earth

or grass, reaching out into the air, unafraid,

and we swayed that way, gently, almost imperceptibly,

upon the kitchen linoleum, until her cries

drifted slowly into coos and gurgles, and at last

into the welcome silence of sleep.

Tonight, I carry her down the narrow hallway,

turning sideways, and with little grace on my part,

dropping her into the soft familiarity of

bedsheets and blankets that bear her fragrance,

her shape still faintly visible from the night before,

where she will drift again into weightlessness,

her body building itself even when she

is seemingly gone, as the map behind her eyelids,

the one only she can read, draws her

forward, relentlessly forward.