Saturday, December 14, 2019


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