The Childless Man Dreams of His Daughter: Bereft
At what age could you hold a glass of milk
in two hands? In one? I never get to see that,
let alone remember it. In this life, I never even
glimpse you, Daughter. In this world, I am
the one who is the perpetual child, born out
of my mother’s darkness, into a brightness
without her. Later, I was told I saw her face
when I was carried to her, but then she died
of the disease my melon-self complicated.
I was “shown to her” they've said, but never
touched her after I was cut away. I never drank
at her breast. How funny to say that, as if
it should bother a grown man. In memory, I
never see my mother, except in a dream
which recreates my infanthood. There she is
well and smiling this time, as I am placed
on her like a wrapped loaf of bread, and at that
moment, glimpsing her soft eyes, I know
suddenly, Daughter, that if you were ever born,
you would have her face. But you will never
be, not in this life, because I touch no woman–
not even the grocery clerk who places my
change so gently in my hand. I plod home in
the fierce glare of spring’s early evening sun,
and the milk I buy will curdle in the carton.
