earrings and a shaved head. They are happy.

After school they do their homework together,

stretched out on her bed, the door open

to the edge of the legal limit.

Every history question finished deserves

a kiss. They’re embarrassed by the names

they’ve invented for each other,

by their tenderness. Toward evening

they watch MTV, mute the volume

during the commercials and plan their future —

junior college, then marriage, then kids,

what they’ll take with them — his dog,

her rat. I’m happy for them, even knowing

what will happen — the last gift, the last

kiss, her huddled on her bed, blinded

by her own bright pain. And I can see clearly

the day she’ll walk away, keys on a ring,

a suitcase banging her legs.

Then the real work of motherhood will begin,

the job of waking into each morning, trusting.

Finding What’s Lost

In the middle of the poem my daughter reminds me

that I promised to drive her to the bus stop.

She waits a few beats then calls out the time.

Repeats that I’ve promised.

I keep the line in my head, repeat it under my breath

as I look for my keys, rummage through my purse,

my jacket pockets. When we’re in the car, I search

the floor for a Jack-in-the-Box bag, a ticket stub,

a bridge toll dollar, anything to write on.

I’m still repeating my line when she points

out the window and says “Look, there’s the poppy

I told you about,” and as I turn the corner I see it,

grown through a crack between the sidewalk and the curb.

We talk about it while I scan driveways for kids

on skateboards and bikes, while the old man who runs

the Rexall locks up for the night and a mangy dog

lifts a frail leg and sprays the side of a tree.

Then we talk about her history essay and her boyfriend,

and she asks again about summer vacation, if we’re

going somewhere or just staying home. I say

I don’t know and ask what she’d rather do, but by now

we’re at the bus stop and she leans over

and, this is so unlike her, brushes her lips

quickly against my cheek. Then, without looking back,

she’s out the door, and the line, the poem,

is gone, lost somewhere near 8th and G, hovering

like an orange flower over the gravel street.

Homecoming

At the high school football game, the boys

stroke their new muscles, the girls sweeten their lips

with gloss that smells of bubblegum, candy cane,

or cinnamon. In pleated cheerleader skirts

they walk home with each other, practicing yells,

their long bare legs forming in the dark.

Under the arched field lights a girl

in a velvet prom dress stands near the chainlink,

a cone of roses held between her breasts.

Her lanky father, in a corduroy suit, leans