When your daughter
Wants to get remarried
You tell her…
It’s a good idea
What else
Are you supposed
To tell her?
It’s a good idea
He’s a different man
Her first marriage ended
Over seven years ago
She’s not the woman
She was seven years ago
Because biologically
Your cells replace themselves
Every seven years
So it’s true
That she’s a different person
Even though mentally
She’s probably worse
Than she was
When she first got married
Because a bad divorce
Is like a bad car accident
You feel it years
Afterwards
You tell her
You like her new fiance
And you do
That’s not a lie
You like lots of people
You even like some people
You probably shouldn’t like
Because they’re not nice people
And they’re not going to be nice
To people you’re supposed to love
Like your daughter
And you do love your daughter
But your daughter is nearly thirty-years-old
And you can no longer
Take care of her
You can love her
You can care for her
You can tend to her
As you did
When she got divorced
And spent eight months
Living in her old room
The room you were using
For an office
To finish a novel
That you promised yourself
Would be done
By its deadline
And instead
You found yourself
Working in the basement
Like some kind of hobbit
Typing all through the night
Next to a furnace
And several broken televisions
That you never figured out
How to recycle
You can love your daughter
When she decides to remarry
But you can’t advise her
It seems
Love has no room
For advice
She asks you questions
And she nods her head
In a way that summons
The right answers
But even then
Sometimes
You give the wrong answer
And her nods
Become shakes
And as she shakes
She begins to list
All the times
You failed to support her
Like when
She wanted to raise
Dobermans
For no reason at all
Or when you told her
That moving to China
Without being able to speak Chinese
And with no job there
Or any prospects
Wouldn’t be wise
Your daughter has no interest
In what’s wise
She never has
You would blame it on her father
Your ex-husband
But if anything
He was too wise
No, she most likely
Gets her attraction to risk
From you
And her love of bad ideas
From watching you spend your life
Pursuing the unattainable
The way tornado-chasers
Barrel into hundred mile an hour wind
When your daughter
Wants to get remarried
You don’t tell her
About the time
You almost got remarried
To a man
You would one day
Try to write a book about
In your basement
Next to a furnace
Trying to remember
How deep the cleft
In his chin was
Or what his belly button
Looked liked
Because you want
To get every part of him
Just
Right
Your daughter never met him
Because she was at college
The day you were at the DMV
And this man sitting next to you
Complimented you
On the book you were reading
And it was only after you looked at him
A second time
That you realized
He was the author of it
Two days later
He was spending the night at your house
And suddenly
A place that had been so quiet
Was so bedeviled with sound
A month after that--
While your daughter
Was refusing to go to
Any of the classes
Your tuition was paying for
Due to her alleged anxiety
That never seemed to manifest itself
Whenever there was a party
On campus to attend
But would rear its head
At the mere suggestion
Of academic effort
--You were talking about engagement
He showed up at your house
With a ring
And nothing to lose
Both of you unwilling
To go through the motions
And hesitations
Of traditional courtship
You had one marriage
Behind you
And one child
Grown and out of the house
He had two ex-wives
And a dog named Sarge
But nothing else
Holding him back
From doing something silly
Like marrying a woman
He had met at the DMV
And who flattered him
By always asking him
About his work
And telling him
That she wanted to be a writer
But she had no talent for it
And could never write anything
As brilliant as his first book
Or the one after that
Or the one after that
When your daughter
Comes home
For spring break
She asks you
Why you decided
To adopt a dog
And you don’t tell her
That the dog, Sarge,
Belonged to a man
You were planning on marrying
Before a heart attack
Changed your plans
You might have
Shared something like that
With her
Your grief
How stupid you feel
Having grief
For a man
Who, thinking about it now
Was a fling
Imagine you
Getting married again
To someone
You barely knew
Someone who
The day before he died suddenly
Bought you an old typewriter
And told you
To get to it
Who called his agent
Without telling you
And insisted
That she take you on
As a client
Based on nothing
But getting his way
Because he had made her
So much money
Years would go by
And that agent
Feeling indebted
To this now dead man
Who was once
Her most popular author
Would still call you
And tell you
That you needed
To write a book
Whatever book you could
Because you’re her client
And her clients write books
When your daughter
Got married
The first time
The man you nearly married
Lived in the air around you
That entire day
And you couldn’t help but think
That some part of that day
Should have been yours
But what a terrible thing
For a mother to think
On her daughter’s
Wedding day
And then when the marriage failed
You wondered
If you cursed it somehow
With your resentment
When your daughter wants
To get remarried
You offer to pay
For what you assume
Will be a much smaller affair
Even though you quickly realize
That your daughter wants something
Even bigger and more elaborate
Than her first wedding
Because now
She has something to prove
And you tell her
That’s
A good
Idea
Because really
What do you know
About good ideas
And bad ideas
What do you know
About anything
Really?
