The Daughter You Almost Had

Ricky Ray

Talk to the daughter you almost had,

ask her if her father in neverland is kind,

patient, indulgent of her curiosities,

prone to spoil her behind her mother’s back,

and if she goes quiet when you ask,

sit with her until it passes.

That she exists in an old

dream you keep

behind an abandoned desire

is enough true bond to love by.

Tell her you’re sorry

you weren’t ready to have children, sorrier

you thought there was a point at which

you could be ready. That no one

could replace her. That you’re still

ashamed, and trying to love the little ones—

broken vine, caught mouse, wing-bent bird—

who come to you, sorrowing at the precipice

of help or death. And tell her that this time,

not always, but more and more often,

when a soul comes limping,

you think of her,

and you choose the lightswitch labeled help.

RICKY RAY is a poet, essayist and eco-mystic who lives with his wife and his old brown dog in the old green hills of New England. He is the author of four books of poetry, including The Soul We Share (2024), winner of the Aryamati Prize, and The Sound of the Earth Singing to Herself (2020), a finalist for the Laurel Prize. He was educated at Columbia University and the Bennington Writing Seminars, and his awards include a Ron McFarland Poetry Prize, a Whisper River Poetry Prize, a Liam Rector Fellowship and a Zoeglossia Fellowship. He lectures on poetry, animism and integral ecology, and he serves on the advisory board of the Program for the Evolution of Spirituality at Harvard.