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FOR THE DAUGHTER I MAY NEVER HAVE

 

What can I say to you,
you who may never exist,
who would have my eyes,
enjoy what I detest, you
who would eat tomatoes like apples,
love soccer and tennis,
and pick the olives out of your salad?

Tell me how, as if this were simple:
where to go for dinner and what to order.
Nevermind how anyone decides anything
three days from an earthquake
and barely one mile from the fire;
I can hardly pick one dish,
let alone upend my life
for a girl who hates olives.

But wanting both lifetimes is not the same
as not wanting you, my dear,
who may or may not exist in the future,
you who would wrinkle our sheets,
sleep in, take large bowls of cereal
up to your room, forget to bring them
back down.

Tell me it’s selfish, choosing
airplanes and grand pianos
over you, my dear.
Tell me it’s selfish, you who would
inherit his teeth, smash glass on the stairs,
spit out words you’d regret,
and call me by my first name.

Sure, I would love you through broken glass,
names, teeth, and regret. But I am as certain
that I may not get the chance,
may refuse to lend you my ribcage

or say your name out loud.

Teach me how to swallow a fate
defined by the absence of you.
Teach me what I would become,
who you would be, if I were your—
tell me who I am. Give me
a lifetime to decide. Give me the life
I’ve chosen for both of us,

then forgive me

and give me another.

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—Dale Trumbore