IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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BROKEN MOON
for Emma

Carole Satyamurti

Twelve, small as six, strength, movement, hearing all given in half measure, my daughter, child of genetic carelessness, walks uphill, always. I watch her morning face; precocious patience as she hooks each sock, creeps it up her foot, aims her jersey like a quoit. My fingers twitch; her private frown deters. Her jokes can sting: 'My life is like dressed crab --lot of effort, rather little meat.' Yet she delights in seedlings taking root, finding a fossil, a surprise dessert. Chopin will not yield to her stiff touch; I hear her cursing. She paces Bach exactly, firm rounding of perfect cadences. Somewhere inside she is dancing a courante. In dreams she skims the sand, curls toes into the ooze of pools, leaps on to stanchions. Awake, her cousins take her hands; they lean into the waves stick-child between curved sturdiness. She turns away from stares, laughs at the boy who asks if she will find a midget husband. Ten years ago, cradling her, I showed her the slice of silver in the sky. 'Moon broken,' she said.

 
 
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