Once a man took his daughter’s dreams —
You know, the visions she had for herself —
Took them, even before she knew she had them,
And gave to her his cheap, second-hand fists instead.
So she grew up not fully knowing who she was:
A Stolen Star Child, knocked off-course in the universe.
I found her a few years later on, married by then
To a preaching man and his congregation
Who wanted to make her the wife she was not,
But wanted not the wife that she was.
There was even some part of the Stolen Star Child
Who wanted for herself what they wanted for her,
And who would have turned her gold into lead for them,
Before cheerfully taking the next rocket ship down to hell.
Despite it all, I felt her enter into my heart that first midnight
To settle there among my dry twigs with a great flutter of wings.
Still, there was nothing I could really give her
So I went looking for her dreams instead.
And now I spend my hours fueling colored patio lamps,
That some say are poems,
Hoping they’ll someday light her way back to the stars.