The morning has rhythm—
wake her up, get dressed, eat
breakfast, brush teeth,
shoes on, then the door. It is
true, even if it is still a sprint.
Not every morning is made from
God, so it is left to me to improvise
upon the machine. Bring
the clothes downstairs, eat in the car
or be ready to pack everything
you can. She is fully dressed,
hoping the morning
will make me forget that she
needs to brush her teeth. It does
not. I can’t brush my teeth if
I already have my shoes on.
She knows this is not
how logic moves around us,
and yet she tries. Not all
gulfs will be this easy to bridge.
She calls the baseball a football
and I correct her. She says
her grandparents are in heaven
now and I say close enough. I never
know what windows are worth
destroying. She knows that I am Santa.
I have driven into the night and returned
with ice cream at her request then
betrayed her by smiling about it. Lost
a game of Connect Four twice. Pretended
to not see her hiding behind the couch.
Told her why she will never have
a brother. Once we roamed around
the woods and watched a deer
beautiful and liquid move among
the tall grass. The girl’s eyes widened
until light came from them. She whispered
even though the deer knew we were
there. Daddy, it’s so cool, she would say.
And I was silent. Smiling, I thought,
Did you know some people shoot them?