Daughter, Home
I left her sleeping in her original bed, home
from the dorm where she lives
most of her days away
from us now, most of the hours
we could not tell you just what
she is doing, whom she might be with,
though we may consult the schedule
posted on the fridge and know: now she
is in her AfAm lecture, now she left Film class,
her hours mostly not ours
to know, except for this one week
of spring vacation, sleeping
down the carpeted hallway we once tread
to wake her for elementary school,
middle school, high school and eons before that,
when we stood over her, smitten, staring
at her breathing, her miraculous breathing,
watching her dream, a binky in each of her hands.
Andrea Potos lives in Madison, Wisconsin, and is the author of six poetry collections, including three full-length: An Ink Like Early Twilight (Salmon Poetry), We Lit the Lamps Ourselves (Salmon Poetry), and Yaya’s Cloth (Iris Press). A new chapbook from Iris Press called Arrows of Light is due out in 2017. She recently received the William Stafford Award in Poetry from Rosebud Magazine.
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