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Tuesday, September 7, 2010
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 Comments (1)Tricia Asklar lives in Rochester, New York, and teaches writing at Nazareth College. Asklar and her wife are expecting their first child in July. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Plain Spoke, Boxcar Poetry Review, Juked, Cold Mountain Review, Verse Daily, So to Speak, and Chronogram, among other journals. More from Tricia Asklar Poetry Archives
Poem to My Seven-Month-Old Daughter Ending with Two Slightly Altered Sentences from The Book Thief
June 6, 2010
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.
Comments
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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