Today there’ve been moments
the earth falters and almost
goes off in those trails of smoke
that resolve to flocks so far
and small they elude my naming.
Walking the old Boston & Maine
roadbed, September, I understand
why it takes fourteen
cormorants to hold the bay’s
rocks down. Have I told you
anything you ought to know?
In time you’ll come to learn
that all clichés are true, that
a son’s a son till he marries,
and a daughter’s a daughter
all her life, but today
I want to begin Latin I with you
again, or the multiplication
tables. For that first phrase of
unwavering soprano that came
once from your room, I’d suffer
a year of heavy metal. Let all
who believe they’re ready for
today call this sentimentality,
but I want the indelible
print of a small hand
on the knees of my chinos again,
now that my head’s full of
these cinders and clinkers
that refused fire’s refinements.
I wish I could split myself
to deepen and hold on as
these crossties have, and admit
goatsbeard and chicory,
bluecurls and blazing star,
these weeds of your never quite
coming back. I wish I could stop
whatever’s driving those flocks
and drove the B&M freights into air.
For a Daughter Gone Away
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