One week beyond the ill-fated future

augured by unknown Mayan priests, my child

will awaken unscathed, her earthly host

redeemed by Providence, her beloved

father beside her, immured from the light

in a makeshift tent. She is my daughter,

born half of light and darkness, a daughter

I’m unable to shield from the future,

where there is neither benevolent light

nor abject darkness– I fear for my child

nevertheless, for she is my beloved,

my stark mirror.  Soon her mother will host

our seventh Christmas morning; she will host

her own scattered shadows, too, our daughter

among the whispers (though no less beloved)

We are the remnants of the same future

shimmering in time around our only child,

like silver wrapping paper catching light.