When Rooms Had Names

It is sad to have a daughter so sad
and tender to the touch in the midnight
kitchen glow dipping ice cream for herself
alone, the bending hand smooth above
surface perfection holding room but no
want for the warmth of others gathered
at dusk to speculate on one so sharp
she must cut the world or be buffeted
like an awkward sail cast sideways to
the wind. I think it is confusion keeps
her quiet, silent as rain in a self-held
mind, for clutch tight we do our ghostly
selves to doll-cloth hearts while outside
the storm rages on—(looking out the window,
dry-lightning bedclothes, fingers curled over
the sill, transfixed by the distance within).
Let us take it back, then, realize the path
for what it is, for the casualty of loss,
the dark minister to failure, allows my
witness of concern, of touch near death’s
pure crime: the muddy, vivid astonishment
of love and human effort: the most God
allows when you live in a house where
rooms have names and there is no name
for the room you are in. Don’t you dare
grow sleepy with meaningless labor
so young! nor forget that if we suddenly
floated the cats would not mind at all,
for the welfare of the wind still wraps
your shadow strong as with your hands
you cast great secrets of grief and a grieving
that is not death, that is only life dying unto
itself, seeking assistance, as always, from
the settling oracle sigh of the child wearied,
indeed, yet intact, as behind you, passing in
the night from light to light, your heart
is treasured in my hands.