Saturday, September 21, 2013

The Seventh Birthday of my Daughter (A Poem)

My daughters skin
Is the color of soft caramel
With the baby sleep
Feel of satin.
Sometimes I watch her play,
Phantom in her pretends’ doorway,
And hope she never feels
The need to tan,
The pressure of ‘pretty enough,’
The whim to pursue perfection,
Chasing its shadow
Into the darkened foyers
Of her twenties
Before realizing that, all along,
Everything she’s meant to be
Was already born into her bones;
The invisible rolling whims,
Fifty percent ancestry, fifty percent genes.
Fifty percent Asian eyes
In their gemmed Taiwanese.
Fifteen percent two great-grandmothers
She won’t remember,
Wrinkled in the skins
Of their new after-lives;
I imagine they watch over us
From the windows of each new moon.
Ninety-nine percent dead star matter
That roiled the residue
Of it’s mechanisms into my closed wound
And birthed my heart, this girl.
My gift to the clouds,
Made of universal clay,
The shrine-made-flesh
Part of me that lives and breathes
And kisses the earth
With the soles of her feet.

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