Another Poem about a Daughter

I just found this poem, Interstate Highway and can’t stop reading and re-reading it.

These lines especially:

we not yet thinking a child

though impossibly guessing her features

            the feathery, minutely combed lashes

the tiny perfect nails, though not yet

    the many later trees at Christmas.

And then these:

I recall the ways that time once gave us—

distracted by signs for meals and clothing,

            travelers, heavy with ourselves

defining the gift that bodies carry,

    lighting the one, inner room, womb for

our daughter. Seeing from above, I read

            this love our child embodies.

Go read the whole poem here.

 

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