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