For My Future Daughter

By Rhiannon Alter

You are not meant to be just one
figure, parallel to posters
that decorate blue bedroom walls.

You are not a blueprint to scale,
man-made, measured by improval.

The ever-changing clouds compose
your foreign hips and mismatched breasts,
which may stir up storms within you.

The beds of pale evening primrose
are the warm safety-nets of fat
that cradle your stomach and thighs.

The softest sheets of untouched grass
blanket your legs as velvet hair.

You are allowed to walk with wind.
You are allowed to destroy groves.
You don’t have to weather beauty.