For My Daughter

Looking into my daughter’s eyes I read 
Beneath the innocence of morning flesh 
Concealed, hintings of death she does not heed.
Coldest of winds have blown this hair, and mesh
Of seaweed snarled these miniatures of hands;
The night’s slow poison, tolerant and bland,
Has moved her blood. Parched years that I have seen 
That may be hers appear: foul, lingering 
Death in certain war, the slim legs green. 
Or, fed on hate, she relishes the sting 
Of others’ agony; perhaps the cruel 
Bride of a syphilitic or a fool. 
These speculations sour in the sun. 
I have no daughter. I desire none.