alone after dark without training wheels
Nanette Rayman Rivera

I ride myself before I fall off the bike, like a bird of paradise who has
no one—don’t worry the shadows are just trees full of sap. In the
woods behind your house prettier birds flap under Orion, they are
who you will be. They’re saving a place for you: Broadway Dakota prairie.
They’ve named you a new name: Sweet Daisy Sweet
Daisy. The years will pass and let me tell you—you are not
your mother. The virtue of patience is warmth
and in sun, deserts
or in a girl’s hot tempered curtsy
the will to do better piles up. It will be soon
enough and I’ll guide you—traverse the field of
motherhood. See, see, Sweet Daisy, my sweet
mother who runs alongside the bike. Who gently pushes
her daughter off training wheels, so
long, Sweet Daisy who won’t finger-anchor her girl.

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