Home After Three Months Away
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#89 Home After Three Months Away
Gone now the baby's nurse,
a lioness who ruled the roost
and made the Mother cry.
She used to tie
gobbets of porkrind in bowknots of gauze--
three months they hung like soggy toast
on our eight foot magnolia tree,
and helped the English sparrows
weather a Boston winter.
Three months, three months!
Is Richard now himself again?
Dimpled with exaltation,
my daughter holds her levee in the tub.
Our noses rub,
each of us pats a stringy lock of hair--
they tell me nothing's gone.
Though I am forty-one,
not forty now, the time I put away
was child's play. After thirteen weeks
my child still dabs her cheeks
to start me shaving. When
we dress her in her sky-blue corduroy,
she changes to a boy,
and floats my shaving brush
and washcloth in the flush. . . .
Dearest I cannot loiter here
in lather like a polar bear.
Recuperating, I neither spin nor toil.
Three stories down below,
a choreman tends our coffin's length of soil,
and seven horizontal tulips blow.
Just twelve months ago,
these flowers were pedigreed
imported Dutchmen; no no one need
distinguish them from weed.
Bushed by the late spring snow,
they cannot meet
another year's snowballing enervation.
I keep no rank nor station.
Cured, I am frizzled, stale and small.
From Selected Poems by Robert Lowell, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. Copyright © 1976
Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of
a father to a daughter. In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons,
ambition; but to our daughters there is something which there are no words
to express.
-- Joseph Addison
Our daughters are the most precious of our treasures, the dearest
possessions of our homes and the objects of our most watchful love.
-- Margaret E. Sangster
There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's
words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to
be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that
feels like love itself.
-- John Gregory Brown
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A daughter is a miracle that never ceases to be miraculous...full of
beauty and forever beautiful...loving and caring and truly amazing.
Deanna Beisser
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