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.