I wrote this poem for my daughter when she was four.
There was something about her that always seemed
on the verge of transformation.
And on top of this I'm trying to negotiate
The Hunger Games. Please don't ask.
- - - -
The stems of iris are no more knobby than your limbs.
Every hub hiding some secret new thing.
On your ankle could blossom strange unfeathered
Wings. Cool and veined.
The wings of an insect.
|An iris from last summer.|
Your elbows might grow sharper,
To buzz on the wind
With the voice of a tough grass whistle.
Am I making of you?
Knees dug into my back.
During the day, you say with such confidence,
"I am very Grave.
I am more Splendor than you."
I cannot correct you;
I know that you are very Grave
And Gravity does not wane when night rises.
And Splendor you are, too.
You mean, of course, that your bones
Are strung a little more loosely
On that soft green thread that holds us Together.
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