Not trying to wipe the smears

of gold from my chin, not trying

to erase the decadence of seeds

and profanity of onion

and grease not trying

to pretend I don’t open

my mouth around the zaftig

pearls of rain in the middle

of the night or that I don’t love

the moment right before sleep

when I am most tender

and translucent my bladder half-filled

knowing I will have to get up

and pee knowing my daughter

will wake up before I am ready

the way I became aware of her

on a climb through the mountains

a heaviness in my limbs a gentle

premonition as I walked later

to the Rite Aid and knew in my hands

and I knew in my mouth

and I knew in the way my body

pulled me forward as I wept

with joy but also grief

that a part of my life was ending

and isn’t it good to know when

life is about to swallow you whole

take you in its arms and say

“Live, bitch, live”

and you believe it

and this is how I will carry her

from her crib and open the curtains

part-way not ready to let the

world in the trails of smoke

and exhaust winter-blue 

as Cat Stevens’ Mona Bone Jakon

spinning on the Crosley  

that opens like an old suitcase

where my daughter will stand

on a chair lifting the stylus

from its perch and guide

it to the starry chatter

that hisses between songs

wondering what will play next