to a daughter i used to want

I’d paint the word ‘no’ on each hand in the morning

for when she forgets her tongue or maybe teeth.

I’d teach her how thoughts are unreliable, making love

while struggling with the outrageous sun

drawn by us

with a dry washable marker.

I’d hope she’d become a drunk,

as they are the happiest people I’ve known.

I’d teach her to climb trees high

when she decides she no longer feels fit

for her indecent world,

repeatedly ripping open its coat

to reveal its eerie erect misery.

I’d teach her my hands are always here

to tear at when she wants to tear on her own.

I’d teach her nothing is anyone’s fault

because life prescriptions

are made of overdoses of lunacy.

I’d map out my own madness,

so she could take detours and avoid bulges.

I’d teach her to take up the most space

and never avoid cracks in the pavement.

I’d teach her to skip far away from things

arguing that she’s cruel for being happy

and sprint from others

who discredit when she’s sad.

And every night, I would push my flesh to hers

and validate every speck she feels and is.

Every piece that I’ll never have.