It is not the planet that carries her through light to night and all the seasons —
I use curtains and switches, and sweetened water in plastic cups with handles and lids.
I can no longer sustain her in a harness on my shoulders, and she asks why:
Why can’t we have cake for dinner?
Why did I have another baby?
Why does he get to cry so much?
Why did I make Granddad die?
I have no god to teach her of except her own small self, who knows nothing of blame.
She trips round the house, laughing yet, her feet swamped in my old black shoes.