Make her a tomboy, one who likes to read;
with hair down to her hips. Every evening

I would loosen it, pick out each hayseed
and green bumble-burr, then brush it, twisting

it up into two plaits, like horse’s reigns
that would hang down her back. She would love math

and stars; fill her summer days with grass stains,
kissing and wild roving. Like Hera’s wrath

none would dare call her “foundling,” “witch’s brat”
or “fay” within earshot. The Blessed Arbor

would be hers; birthright only to children
of the gods. Forgive me, my ghostly cat,

my lost foal; you see, I have no daughter,
and my dreams, like my body, are barren.