The Show Opens Tomorrow
Why now but I miss my childhood.
Miss the free radical self
who idled over a blade
of grass or belted a show tune
upside down, trim and tall
in a handstand
I could hold long, long...
The grace of living
palms to floor, married
to the single moment,
the joy uncatalogued.
Tonight my daughter came
singing from her dress rehearsal,
cheeks rosy and hair unwinding from a do,
lips and eyes still stained;
she reviewed the glorious flaws,
the company notes, the heart-stomping
boys with men's voices.
Her face scrubbed and cradled in pillow,
herself tucked and attended by her kingdom's trinkets,
books, once-favored animals, diaries,
she tossed up an arm
and laughed, half begged:
"It won't ever be this much fun again,
will it?"
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