Girl,
daughter,
snoring flesh with fingernails
too fine for American jewelers,
requiring the magnified eyes of some Swiss
craftsman, a toymaker,
also good with watches,
and filigreed hands—minute, hour, and infant.
Girl,
have I forgotten you already?
Have I lost that sweet amniotic scent,
out of the room for the merest ticking of your clock,
and back, startled by your presence,
your breathing,
your being?
Girl,
of war,
I watched you battle your mother
and still cannot believe
in you.
No trick—no lying trick at least.
No casino illusion, was your arrival,
no amateur’s sleight of womb.
I flinch and start and net my breath
at the heft of fresh existence,
the gravitas of your pink wrath.
Girl,
small apocalypse,
my forever surprise.

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