My daughter, fists of fire, kiss of a panther.
If the sun had a voice it would be yours.
My daughter, steel bridges of lashes,
heart of a dinosaur, speed of an aircraft,

little body full of bees. The world you inherit:
we didn’t mean it, we haven’t known better.
Trust me, once upon a time there was freedom
of speech, freedom of travel, freedom of thought.

Before our straitjackets got too cosy you could
leave everything open: your door, your mind,
your future, even your ripe blackberries of eyes.
My daughter, with two languages arguing,
my daughter without measure,

my daughter, soul of the dawn,
my daughter, enemy of all order —
not everything locked is worth opening.
My daughter, my nightingale’s song:
but this is not for them to decide
how you use your key.

Today’s poem is from Polina Cosgrave’s recent collection Cargo (The Gallery Press)