365 Poems/95 Daughter (Rough first draft)
You still ask questions. Things like
what’s the best way to find someone
who you’ve lost in a supermarket.
Why does milk run down the underside
of the carton when you pour too slowly,
and why does a biscuit go soft overnight,
whereas a baguette turns rocky and tough.
Summer has been awful. So we’ve decided
to bring our own version indoors.
We put strawberries with rose water and mint,
and slowly whip up a small carton of cream.
It makes me smile to see how the transformation
from liquid to soft peaks still captivates you
at twenty six.
You silently remind me to enjoy uncomplicated things.
We continue to eat the cream with tea spoons
long after the strawberries are finished.
There’s a faint print of henna on your hands,
a thumb ring I’ve never seen before, and from
the looks of things, you’ve stopped biting your nails.
You mention a boy.
He’s taught you impractical ways
of how to get your daily intake of vitamin C.
He’s encouraged you to make a collage,
to help you stay upbeat and focused
during down times and periods of stress.
Long silences are okay now. We are comfortable with them.
I realise that you have suddenly become a woman,
and the happy shock makes me want to beat the moon
as if it’s a steel drum.