For My Future Daughter

by Clare Pollard

Try not to think too deeply,

try not to think too well.

Heaven is in small details,

labyrinths lead to hell.

Take comfort from the squirrel,

take comfort from the moon —

like a hot-buttered crumpet,

a kind face in your room.

And if you are now older

take comfort in his smell,

the fact he's cooked you dinner,

the fact he treats you well.

Try not to think too deeply.

You never can be good.

You'll never find a home that

is not marked with some blood.

And sorry that I brought you

to a world where that's true.

The Protestants hate Catholics.

The Arabs hate the Jews,

and half the world hates you, dear.

But I loved your warm head 

before I'd even planned you.

I pictured you in bed

and kissed that absent soft-spot,

and though I am not there,

shut your eyes, squeeze my hand tight,

and though I won't be there

in some way I'll be there, dear.

That is how we persist.

My sweet thing, do forgive me

for selfishness. I kiss

you wherever you are now

and hope you're glad of life —

despite the violent weather,

despite the sudden knife —

and that you love that one gift,

that rare thrill of I am

as death pans out around you.

Hope that you do not damn

this mother who loved life so,

she hoped she'd live within

you, after: ball your fist, dear,

and feel your nails dig in.