Too Familia

My daughter flips

earmarked magazines

from a chair in the lobby,

a mountain of brooding men

modeling revolutionary colognes

and capture the world watches

in half dressed leather rooms.

I won't whisper to her

but hope she hears me,

"Don't expect the world

to be the world to you,

every piece has been sold,

everything touchable marred."

We pay the insurance,

make a bond to collect her due.

In all her years I might shape this minute

or that, pass on a smile,

the wealth of a psalm.

We hope and we know we hope,

we lift eyes and head each morning

to the mockingbird's trumpet.

Some of the day's march

falls silent on our knees.

If I could hand her love in alabaster

velvet smooth and white,

a cup to catch the tears of Jesus,

holy water for her branch giving leaf,

then I'd be a father worthy.

Sand and pearls will

make her song.

Distance keep the war from hurting.

Dinners with grace and the boyfriend

careful to care,

I buckle as she drives us

home.