Had I Had A Daughter Named Delia
Had I had a daughter I would have named her Delia.
Nobody names their sons George anymore.
The name Delia contains the sway of a dark fluid flower.
Nobody names their daughters Delia anymore.
Had I a fish, I would have called it beloved whopping cough
to which I am inscribed.
Nobody calls their coughs tenderly anymore.
Had I loved a fig, I would have called it certain lovely fig in
the now of my mouth.
No one describes the mouthed-now of lovely anymore.
Had Delia and I been father and daughter, I would have
held her fever, clutched her daily dissolve, taught her
the invisible, all the ways of softness I know, even how
to release that certain vulnerable hunch she'd no
doubt inherit from my own childhood strain.
No one teaches touch anymore, a way to kiss the inside
bleeding of a star, anymore.
Had Delia asked me, Dad, I don't understand boys. I am
unsure of my sway, the mood of my moon— how can I
rejoice? I would have named her normal.
No one is named normal anymore.
Had I had a daughter named Delia, I would have loved
her just for being my daughter, asked her to name her
daughter Delia too.
At least when you're sixty-three and male and
childless and male, nobody names their daughter's
daughter anymore.
_____________________
George Kalamaras
Luminous in the Owl's Rib
Dos Madres 2019
