from THE DAUGHTER I DON'T HAVE
By Lyn Lifshin

THE DAUGHTER I DON'T HAVE
is the one my mother
said, without, I
won't know what heart
ache is. She trails
me on buses. My
mother's given her
the key to who I am
and she has enough
frequent flyer miles
to follow me my
whole life. She could
find a better mother,
one with more room
in her life but she's
as stubborn as I am.
Or, my mother. The
branches scraping
the roof are her
fingers begging me
to let her in,
the rain's her crying.
She calls me cruel,
dials my phone then
hangs up before
it's light. She
thinks I'll give in
though I insist that
it is just my love
that keeps me from
making her mine

†

THE DAUGHTER I DON'T HAVE
is too much like
the lover I couldn't
hold and can't let
go of. She sticks
in my throat, a
chicken bone
wedged in soft
flesh, tearing a
hole. If I could
swallow her or
spit her out she
wouldn't make April
this raw. I hear
her moan in the
night and it's as
haunting as his
voice on the pillow
on radio air years
after we don't
talk. Sometimes I
feel her fingers
poke from inside,
throwing the
tantrums that I
did. Like a lost
love, she's hard
and heavy. I think
of the woman with
a stone baby inside
her 50 years after
she had labor pains
but nothing came
of it

†

THE DAUGHTER I DON'T HAVE
won't see pregnant
women as swollen or fat,
bloated with something
it's too late to
easily get rid of
but as a curve, a
moon that's full,
some sweet ripe melon.
She'll see ovals and
rolling hills, not
something out of her
control to shove
ahead of her or some
thing that is pulling
her places she didn't
want to go. She'll
think of small fists
reaching toward her,
not the howls that
won't let her sleep or
paint or breathe as she
used to, won't believe
that for each baby
you lose a tooth

†

THE DAUGHTER I DON'T HAVE
wouldn't blush easily
or bruise if you just
lean near her. She'd
have enough between
her and what's out
side to not go blue
and black at some
thing small thought
she wouldn't be so
guarded nothing
gets through. She
wouldn't be missing
any layer of skin,
or bulge out of
her self, put up a
moat of fat between
who she is and other
skin. She would
let me hold her,
let me let her
go like hair let
loose from rollers
still holding the
shape of what
held it

†

THE DAUGHTER I DON'T HAVE
wouldn't be so sullen
in play school she had to
be dragged from the dollhouse
she could stand up in
and hosed out under the lilacs.
At four, with her mother
in the hospital about to bring a
new baby home, she wouldn't
be sure she couldn't go on living
without her, sob when
the hose someone thought would
make her forget her grief
splashed her so she had to go
back to her grandmother's for
new pink polka dot shorts.
The daughter I don't have
wouldn't go wild with missing,
wouldn't balk at digging in the
sand or making a clay man in
the drive or grasp bark
when they try to coax her to put
blank paper on blobs of oil in
a tub of water to see what
emerges but would cut her own
moon out of yellow construction
paper and tape it to the sloped
ceiling over wideboard floors
sure, unlike her mother, it would
keep nightmares away

†

THE DAUGHTER I DON'T HAVE
will see ahead, imagine
her own daughter walk
thru glass carrying a
baby in her arms.
She looks back to
her shadow stealing a
base in white loose
jeans and touches her
own baby's fingers, feels
them curl around her
wrist as if she
was the bat the
child would
first test the
world out with,
sees her mother
in the bleachers
take a photograph
of what she can't hold
to prove it's real

© Copyright 2004 by Lyn Lifshin

Lyn Lifshin has written more than 100 books and edited 4 anthologies of women writers. Her poems have appeared in most poetry and literary magazines in the U.S.A., and her work has been included in virtually every major anthology of recent writing by women. For more information, see her website: www.lynlifshin.com