Queen Of The Forest
For my daughter, Maggie
 

When she was my baby in curls,
a single stroke of her hand examined
my face, with smiles, spit ups and
ugh-ugh sounds, almost in the same
breath.

My ear has retreated into the murmurs
of childhood where painting a pattern of
birds and mythical bunnies becomes an
adventure. None of the colors match the
brush of skin against cheek.

"I am the Queen," she says. "The Queen
of the forest!"
"No, not the Queen!" I say.
This provokes a round of giggles; arms,
legs begin to flail with joy.

She missed the sixties, the hippies,
the bohemian poets of Washington Square
Park, the flower children and corporate
escapees with long hair and middle-class
traditions.

I promise myself she will be a free spirit,
regardless, and decorate her room with pink
peace signs and purple-glittered lava lamps.
She studies the intricacies of Jimi Hendrix's
lyrics while wearing tye-dyed t-shirts.

The word respect reminds me of my responsibilities
and I quickly differentiate between
discipline and the breaking of one's soul.
"You need to stay home more, Mommy." And I
do, packing her thermos with sweetened tea for snack.

At school she learns about the "N" word and someone
calls her a half-breed spic. She blinks and smiles,
remembering that cleaning ladies, bus drivers,
fast food workers, all have dreams that bleed red.
And she's known a lot of cool "Ns" and half-breed spics.

There's an air bubble in the billows of her gypsy
skirt that she wears with pride. She says that one
day she will move to Paris and live among the
painters and poets while writing about the ravages
of war and the ethical treatment of animals.

As I stare into her blue-green eyes, that spell out
a portion of our history, I am honored to be
her mother. A young woman is painting a pattern of
birds and mythical bunnies. And I know that even in
a group she will manage to travel alone.