Kneel to her. I do.
What sweetness she is.
Coax her, as if you can make her believe
she will live in a shining meadow
or a cave of crystal, as if the first step
is toward an opening of sun
or star-filled night.
She will open,
from my first self
and lighten her being
with a brightness of step
and I see her like I am
myself, love her, hold her,
a hand at the back of the neck
and the girl child in my center
born to a world
not in prison, not killed as an infant,
the best of fortune
not in a flooding delta,
a war, not with a machete
to the neck, lucky enough,
not with her own child
killed before her.
She is the carried gift,
how very tender
like the turning silver
of the fish in the pond at night,
beautiful, exhausted
to come passing into the circle of the world.
She is the grain-filled, grape-filled,
milk-filled, light.
She has no fur,
no thick hide.
No wonder we are warriors.
Come on child,
even if you will never understand,
even if you will be angry
with your own kind.