This poem is called "Teacup This."
To my young daughter, I sing the songs
my mother sang to me, which is to say, to my young daughter,
I sing an eclectic selection of breakup tunes of the '60s
and '70s.
[LAUGHTER]
(SINGING) I should have known you'd bid me farewell.
There's a lesson to be learned in this,
and I learned it very well.
Now I know you're not the only starfish in the sea.
If I never hear your name again, it's all the same to me.
That does not seem right to sing to a baby.
[LAUGHTER]
But here I am, and here she is, bed sprawled and blessed
and so perhaps, like the starfish,
yes, one creature of more than the world requires.
As I am unceasingly reminded by pamphlet mandates, blanket
labels, alerts to lay her always up, it's awful to be a person.
That's why, from my lovers, I've always
demanded to know what kind of a dog I would be,
were I ever a dog.
And don't say "teacup this," "toy that."
Don't pick a dog that must travel all over stuffed
in a bag like a filthy magazine.
Don't take it lightly when I say,
of all the men I've been with, there are only a few
I never would allow to hold my child.
I consider this a triumph.