To my daughter about being grown-up

(after Mila Haugová)

 

No, I have no secrets to pass on.

Cannot explain how self-doubt

picks out a mind to live in.

 

With patterns of our shared sky

I see your shadow come and go,

but cannot open the heavy door

 

into brilliant daylight.

People keep pushing through –

all that knocking never for you

 

or so it seems. For I don’t hear

the language of your longing,

nor question your regrets.

 

But picture those ghosts

who left you standing: their bare faces,

behind unanswered texts.

 

In the making of your own bed,

it isn’t good enough for me to claim:

‘All men are not the same’.

 


ii. 2022

Poetry Is Not Dead - May 2023