By Christine Degenaars

A scenario: something
tragic happens to my family, all my friends,

and I go off alone to settle again into a bright
sadness, in this, I have a daughter. 

We live above a bakery, 
sleep on cots of newspaper, old cloth.

My hands raw from the bread and scones
we knead each morning. With cupcake liners, 

she makes skirts for her fingers, 
we never have enough for her pinkies. 

Still she twirls, hands up. In the single shaft 
of light, dust turns the air a kind of gold. Other times,

we stay in shaded cabins, soggy with pine, 
hers a slightly smaller version of mine.

We carve our names into mossy stones,
sound out the letters, “Chr” then “I”. Soil collects

like a dark stream under our nails. 
We wake groggy, wet with dew, hair

matted like deer or wild boar. I chase her 
on my hands and knees and she runs, skips

over an open root and becomes fully fawn. 
But sometimes, when I imagine my girl, she is nothing 

more than human. We sit on dirty benches 
in airport terminals, her little hand in mine, 

head resting on our luggage. 
We argue to show my patience. She laughs 

to demonstrate my good humor 
in calamity. I carry her from door to door,

day to day, as I would an old suitcase. 
I open, lay her bare. I would, I do.