ARDOR

When I've traveled somewhere so distant I cannot help her,
my very hands buried, or lost, or ash,
when I've come to the world no one returns from,
may my daughter have grown yet more brave and whip-smart

in this one, tall and mouthy, even, eyes far-flung
and beguiling. I would bestow on her the power
to hypnotize landlords and bosses, thugs and policemen,
to pay for all purchases with her singular smile

and return grief to its source. Failing that, I wish her routine
troubles only. Sweet Jesus, nothing outlandish:
her parents' deaths before hers as she approaches her dotage,
one toothache for practice, one flat tire for measure.

May her exaltations be often. May she love who she loves
with ferocity and hate what she does with equal ardor.
May she believe what I once believed, but longer,
each minute a kingdom, and she the strongest vying sovereign.