Sandi Leibowitz

The child you made up for a lark
on a consumer survey years ago
suddenly keeps getting mail.
She’s graduating this year.
Don’t we need a college loan?
She’s attending her prom.
Won’t she need a limo?

Some company’s kept tabs
on us, our family
that doesn’t exist,
has savored all our landmarks
all this time
while you and I
have led our separate lives.

I think about her, this girl
I never got to know,
never wanted,
although the month my father died
when for a brief while I wondered
if I were pregnant,
I named her—
Athena Rose,
A for my father Abraham,
Rose for his mother—
a strong name,
her initials strong
when linked with your last name—
ARM.

She would be armed for life,
I thought,
helmets and thorns,
wisdom and beauty.
If mother could arm daughter
against life’s disappointments,
I would provide for her.