Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Poem to My Seven-Month-Old Daughter Ending with Two Slightly Altered Sentences from The Book Thief

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A giraffe at my right hand,
a piece of bread, a cup of water.
After a day of chores and child
entertainment, a space heater
at my back, I write with three women.

One swings you around the room,
your sounds trilling back to me.
The language I must understand--
the magnetism of fish, the wash
of carrot puree around a tray.

The evening spreads into our goodnight
time--your other mother in San Antonio,
you asleep on triple blankets on the wood floor.

At 13, you'll scream, "I wish you were dead."
We'll write you a letter cataloging your injuries
to give you later. I'm sorry for Rochester,
where fingers split in the winter, where
the sky is like soup, boiling and stirring.

A mountain range of rubble is written,
designed, erected around you.


Tricia Asklar received her MFA from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. She currently lives with her wife and daughter in Rochester, New York, and teaches writing at Nazareth College. She is also proud mother of twins born in September. Her poems have appeared in Boxcar Poetry Review, Chronogram, Cold Mountain Review, juked, Literary Mama, Neon, Poet Lore, Redactions, Red Wheelbarrow, So To Speak, and on Verse Daily, among other publications.


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this poem by Tricia is comforting to the lovely girl she is writing this poem for. In later years your daughter will ask about the poems and letters you leave her, and through the website othwer boys and girls.
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