-for my daughter Barýþ-
my
sweetie’s bought high-heeled shoes, says she’ll have her hair styled
I’m
the greatest admirer of my greatest admirer
it would be wrong to recall her first smile now
chatting
on my lap, ten days old
feeding
her
the
soft smell of her nappies
it
would naturally be wrong to think of her first steps
there’s
a long time till she returns
"possibility
of life is not life" she said when six
her TV script when eight
the list of her love affairs in primary school
(who,
what % and how long she loved)
shouldn’t
come to my mind now
it’s
too early yet
her first novel, written when thirteen
all of jane austen, read at fourteen
teasing
me for my ignorance
it’s no time for nostalgia
there
are eight months more for those memories
I
must keep them for the day before she comes
the
tears of hopeless love when fifteen
mustn’t
bring tears now
the novel she wrote in english before she left
is
beside me anyway
676
pages
biting
her lower lip
after talking about a handsome youth
cuddling
her soft blue elephant and sleeping
our
games
"you’re
not listening to me, dad" her protest
spanking
my four year old and her crying
shouldn’t
come to mind now
"again
you’re not listening, dad"
"pardon?"
"you
see!"
her splitting in two when her mom and I divorced
and
her joy at our re-marriage
lying beside me her head on my chest
all
these mustn’t rush to my mind
each
has its turn
exactly eight months, only eight months left
I’m
mature, we’re mature, she’s mature
my
daughter is sixteen, I’m forty-three
no reason for sorrow
my
sweetie’s just somewhere in our small world
she’ll have her hair styled tomorrow
