Yes

I vow to teach her to say "yes".

Whoever she decides to become, to say 

"yes".

To the prom dates, yes

to the little pinky dancing with hers, yes

to going barefoot in asphalt, yes

to sticking her tongue out, yes

to bleeding knees,

to the mess,

the crooked noses,

to the aliveness of it all.

Yes to leaving the husks of her, yes

to jumping outside her own body, yes

to shedding her skin.

But also "no."

You can't enjoy bike rides without brakes, no

you can't drink Pepsi, no

to sometimes yes, no

you must last me many more mornings.

But mostly yes.

I know the hollow space

of every place lived

without

the shadow you wanted

cast

next to yours, so yes.

Mostly yes. 

I vow to kiss

the inside of her palm and whisper,

"You must live to a thousand horizons."

You mustn't love gently.

You must

love 

the wholeness

and the tragedy

in all of it.