Royalty

"I gave birth to a princess," her mother

once told me, and I thought of my son pouring

his Grape-Nuts in the garage so as not to wake her,

of the moment her baby, seeing her

now a separate entity, seemed not to breathe,

refused to blink her sapphire eyes.

I remembered again last night as she

and I crossed a Florida street, the caution

light running gold streamers

over the dark sweep of her hair,

when a young man coming toward us halted

midway a moment, stunned, before moving on.

So what is this Divine Right—less

than bloodlines, or more? More than symmetry

of face or a silver necklace nestled

at a flawless throat, the nerve to send back

bad food in restaurants, more than the big,

loopy handwriting of the generous spirit?

Call it bravery, that eager readiness

in the eyes, the quality of the light shining

there. Call it blessed assurance.

Today, pony-tailed, she luxuriates in sun,

opulent in a hot pink bikini. In deference

the ocean leans away, a backdrop.

I find myself bent, studying the shore for perfect

shells to lay at her feet—cat's paw, prickly

cockle, angel wing. Call it homage, more or less.