Long as the latitude I allow love—
my one and only daughter sings along
the downstroke of her thumb strum
her head nodding to the ukulele neck.
I keep mum as mothers learn they must
who listen on the other side of window glass,
my other ear to the bush beyond
where the murder birds are bound
to turn in their coffin dreams.
Didn’t all the angels weep
when a single angel wept,
wiping out the difference?
I make believe I could kiss
all the tears from all their baby faces
crooning nothing is amiss, nothing amiss
when the sweetest little bird voice
breaks from the minor chord she bumbled—
is how it dawns on me
there is no right way to do this.