to my daughter
When I hug you tight at bedtime,
you wince in pain for the tender
swelling of new breasts.
Nothing is said, both of us aware
of the convenant of silence
we must maintain through the rending
apart that is adolescence. But it won't always
be confusion and hurting, the body
will find itself through this pain;
remember Michelangelo, who believed
that in marble, form already exists,
the artist’s hands simply pulling it out
into the world. I want to tell you about men:
the pleasure of a lover's hands on skin
you think may rip at elbows and knees
stretching over a frame like clothes
you've almost outgrown; of the moment
when a woman first feels a baby's mouth at her breast, opening her
like the hand of God in Genesis, the moment
when all that led to this seems right. Instead I say, sweet dreams,
for the secrets hidden under the blanket like a forbidden book
I'm not supposed to know you've read.