My Daughter

by Elizabeth Spires

after a poem by Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Late in the afternoon she sits with me,
trapped in the corner’s shadows,
a thought that comes and goes,
dark hair unlike my own, dark eyes
that mourn the absent love between us,
her life a task of waiting she did not choose.
The light shines through her body,
her eyes fill with tears, but still she says
nothing, no, nothing at all. She waits
until the sun disappears, and then she goes,
taking my name with her, leaving
a silent space that words can never fill,
my daughter, the one I never had, who calls
to me so softly that nobody hears.

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