Often one of my daughters 
howls me to her bed, 

and like a trained victim I trance
to their denned room

to comfort a face
shaped by some dream

or another—eyes pressed shut,
lips in the nightlight

the shade of a dried peach.
Isn’t it absurd,

an old prince like me, 
stirred by their delicate mouths?

I nuzzle my head into hints
of urine and Vick’s.

Then, too awake 
inside the ticking, I gnaw away

at the latest tragedy 
from Florida or Mosul

or simply dwell on 
the wrecked condition of my kind—

wondering what I can do 
about the rapidity

of my daughters’ heartbeats
and my own human

rapaciousness over their lives.