Dusk

What woke to war in me those years When my daughter had first grown into A solid self-centered self? I’d watch her Sit at the table—well, not quite sit, More like stand on one leg while The other knee hovered just over the chair. She wouldn't lower herself, as if There might be a fire, or a great black Blizzard of waves let loose in the kitchen, And she'd need to make her escape. No, She'd trust no one but herself, her own New lean always jittering legs to carry her— Where exactly? Where would a child go? To there. There alone. She'd rest one elbow On the table—the opposite one to the bent leg Skimming the solid expensive tasteful chair. And even though we were together, her eyes Would go half-dome, shades dropped Like a screen at some cinema the old aren't Let into. I thought I'd have more time! I thought My body would have taken longer going About the inevitable feat of repelling her, But now, I could see even in what food She left untouched, food I'd bought and made And all but ferried to her lips, I could see How it smacked of all that had grown slack And loose in me. Her other arm Would wave the fork around just above The surface of the plate, casting about For the least possible morsel, the tiniest Grain of unseasoned rice. She'd dip Into the food like one of those shoddy Metal claws poised over a valley of rubber Bouncing balls, the kind that lifts nothing Or next to nothing and drops it in the chute. The narrow untouched hips. The shoulders Still so naïve as to stand squared, erect, Impervious facing the window open Onto the darkening dusk.