Some Notes on Shadows
I wept making love to a man old enough
to be my father. When we curved
into sleep, one of us contained
more shadow than the other.
A child’s unfixed eyes swim
after complicated light on the wall.
It is sunset, a white hydrangea tree
at the window in the breeze.
Before your child can speak
she is scarcely a girl, but a thing you know
you could kill someone to save.
It is a rush of knowing—this shadow.
The story goes: my father first held me
one morning at the window of the hospital.
That is a mailbox, he told me,
that is a tree. He did not mention the shadow.