TWO POET DAUGHTERS

I was compared to a dead woman

in Florida last night. Her father,
drunk, soaked in grief, told my father

that his daughter was once a poet too

and his daughter was once a daughter
before she opened her faucets

and let them run into the night.

He found her, you know, her body
a drought. A soundless cello.

Last night, the two poet-daughters

were summoned like a memory
to his mouth. It’s not fair, you know,

he slurred, why my girl and not yours?

:::

In the room that doesn’t exist, where
you and I are made of the same

matter, I am braiding your hair.

You are reading your poetry
and it is the first time I have cried

from the graceful audacity of words.

Your body is light, and by that I mean
actually glowing, like your skin

could fill a whole room or a keyhole

or waltz with dust beyond the curtains—
you tell me that is not my best metaphor

and I smile because I know you are right.

It’s okay though, you say, we will think
of a better one tomorrow. We fall

asleep in each other’s arms, as the sun

in the room that doesn’t exist
slides down the end of the world.

Somewhere, our fathers are singing.