To an Unborn Daughter

If writing a poem could bring you

Into existence, I’d write one now,

Filling the stanzas with more

Skin and tissue than a body needs,

Filling the lines with speech.

I’d even give you your mother’s

Close-bitten nails and light-brown eyes,

For I think she had them. I saw her

Only once, through a train window,

In a yellow field. She was wearing

A pale-coloured dress. It was cold.

I think she wanted to say something.