Too Familia

My daughter flips
earmarked magazines
from a chair in the lobby,
a mountain of brooding men
modeling revolutionary colognes
and capture the world watches
in half dressed leather rooms.

I won't whisper to her
but hope she hears me,
"Don't expect the world
to be the world to you,
every piece has been sold,
everything touchable marred."

We pay the insurance,
make a bond to collect her due.
In all her years I might shape this minute
or that, pass on a smile,
the wealth of a psalm.

We hope and we know we hope,
we lift eyes and head each morning
to the mockingbird's trumpet.
Some of the day's march
falls silent on our knees.

If I could hand her love in alabaster
velvet smooth and white,
a cup to catch the tears of Jesus,
holy water for her branch giving leaf,
then I'd be a father worthy.

Sand and pearls will
make her song.
Distance keep the war from hurting.
Dinners with grace and the boyfriend
careful to care,
I buckle as she drives us
home.