So many rocks: grey and striped,
pebbled and fist-sized,
pregnant with crystals, laced with moss.
One has a drawing
on it, the shape of her handprint.
Another is taped with a baby tooth
They are the offerings
she leaves him daily
on the corner of his big desk.
She brings him raisins
when he is working.
Hands them to him, one by one.
Daily she reaches inside the cage of her ribs
and pulls out her heart,
offers it in return for his attention.
He thinks: When she is 32 percent grown
she will marry and have a child;
in all she’ll own 4 cars, 2 houses. Pay taxes.
Until she was eleven
she wanted a horse,
which could have been predicted
Using a table of averages
for the desires of girls
in the twentieth century
He has contemplated the nucleotides of risk
the world could hand her.
In his head they sit in a grid:
A table of hardship elements.
He is her raisin-eating father.
She donates her heart to his science.
The.American.Word. 