I cannot have her change--her blonde hair darken to black or red,
her hands to tire of holding the cracking spines of books or
her feet too lazy to circle the neighborhood in the rain,
while awkwardly training her mouth in French.
But what if she has no new words for me,
And my humor earns nothing--my honesty nothing--
And everything I hid crawls out from
Under her bed and learns to make her laugh?
Or she wakes one morning to find that her father is just a man?
That our answers came from the mouths of
The brilliant dead--
That we pray to keep her as she is--
Fourteen and perfect--
Our praised and humbled Margarita.
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