Some parents shy away from the body,
but we hush up about the cross—
rereading our daughter the story about Jesus

Roxy lifts her furrowed face and opens
her mouth for another hunk of banana muffin.
Her eyes are matted shut; her white hair wild as Isaiah’s.

I should have worn gloves to the Inauguration Ball, where I
was criticized for my attire—my hair shirt and sandals, helmet
and scabbard.

These are the four directions of the fence: up, down, right,
wrong, black, white, male, female. Nevertheless, at night the
fence points only toward the future, time’s true north.

If my enticement is any more monstrous today
than yesterday, if it builds any more power
into its sides, if its red-gold plush

Phyllis says she makes a good bear.
I don’t really want to trade a quilt
for a teddy bear. Neither

Of those who finally win notice,
of these artists it is said their early work
is either purer, more astounding,

The boy had a group of freckle-faced friends
Who lived nearby. He gave them names, taught them games.
They loved him. He had a sweet nature, sang show tunes

It had taken him long enough but now
He was an American. The years of effort had paid off.
He knew all about the pennant races and the Academy Awards

The happiest moment in a woman’s life
Is when she hears the rum of her lover’s key
In the lock, and pretends to be asleep