A short poem dedicated to my daughter in the womb


They say, in March,
my life will
be a tidal wave.

But, I don’t know
if they know
how tidal waves behave.

The water recedes from the shoreline,
laying bare the ghost of its silence,
showing us the upset coral of thousands of
stranded souls who never quite made it.

Then, off in the distance,
the penitent potentiality
rises up to the sky in prayer,
and hurtles itself,
with all abandon,
against the
rocks and muck and grime
as if shouting will never work the same way it had in the past.
Its hammer-fist renders the cliffs to melting metronomes,
the beach becomes an avalanche.
Floundering, staccato becomes the life,
and the line between earth and salt and water
is erased by the hands of an angry toddler,
who, incidentally, is crying to be held
only to be shushed by a spinning, lighted mobile
(the one with the soothing sound effects that
could never replace, nor should ever replace,
the beauty in the lullaby).
If there were people,
there aren’t now,
for they’ve cradled each other with such
force as to be
transcended into another world.

All is calm after the ensuing storm, and
cast onto the sand
its breath remains,
soft and pulsing,
and if you’re lucky
you’ll find what you’re looking for.

In March,
I believe I will know
what the tidal wave is,
it won’t be a tidal wave.
It will be a blessing,
it will be a devotion,
it will be a girl.

-JR Simmang


  1. Beautiful. She will be lucky to have a father that loves her this much already.

  2. Thanks so much, Mallory. It's what we strive to do as parents.


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