He named her Leta

I teach her to wash her face,
the white bumps nomads
across her freckly nose, she fears
she’ll never become a star,
never strut down a cat walk
or sing on a New York stage
I say hold your hands under,
cup them like a bowl
catch the water and bring it up,
it helps to blow out a bit,
yes make little bubbles, like
when I taught you to swim
in the plastic pool of star fish
and seahorses in the swampy yard
or at the lake where your dad
taught you how to put that slimy
thing on a hook
before we walked to Nanny’s grave
too soon, not yet situated in the earth
but still a mound your father
cried before, your 3 three year old hand
on his shoulder, with the purple
glittered star barrettes in your curly hair
The photos of you are the same
just miniature you’s they are
my star child, my gift of May
with sage eyes and serious brow
like dad’s I’m afraid
He also dreamt of being a star,
the sores on his hands unhealing,
strumming a base and singing
“I’m so lonesome I could cry”
while he sat beside me, one of us
comforted, the other the lonely one
as we looked up at the little town
stars, he put his hand
on my then flat belly.