My daughters read horoscopes
like scripture,
the eldest peering over
the tops of newspapers
to look eagerly about
for a tall, dark stranger with whom
to have my grandchildren.
The second, the pragmatist,
lifts rug corners and chair cushions
seeking gold and jewels
misplaced by visitors
who pretend to be less than rich.
I would chide them openly, deny
this charting of each day's journey
via patent frivolity
if I could be sure
what to offer in return.
Perhaps I could say,
"Avoid today anyone who
makes you want to lie,"
but in their fierce need for approval
children learn early
to shuffle what is true
with what they wish to be so.
Or I could say,
"Do not make love every time
your teeth itch--
try going to the bathroom first
and thinking of embarrassing diseases
or stretch marks."
But when teenage hormonal
sirens begin to wail,
it is the parents
who fold themselves
beneath the desk
awaiting the silence
of a narrow escape
or the concentric blows
of a chromosome explosion.
Maybe I could say,
"End each day with a hopeful song
full of dreamwords like heartbeats
and fond embraces,"
but some nights fathers rage
or disappear, grandmothers
pass away, and someone decides
to love someone else forever, again.
Who can read music against
the ink black of a starless sky?
If there is to be hope for them
perhaps it is this--
perhaps I could say,
"Be sure to make
the kinds of mistakes
that will prepare you well
for second marriages."
#writer #writerslife #writing #author #mothersdaughters
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