Dec 11th (revised) - after Morgan's six words

Already I can see the tart
in my preschooler. The sprinkler
catches her at the end
of its hemisphere each time
and she shrieks like she wasn't
asking for it - I saw her stall
at the edge of the water line,
one leg kept back mimicking
her brother's at-bat stance.
Or when I put away her toys,
she yells Hey from the floor
where she often sits like a small,
colloquial guru hey those are mine.

I can't flush myself out
of her system with good, clear
wisdom. In her lower lip is
her preference for skirts and powerful colors.
She will, she will figure herself into messes
evolved from the messes of her mother's,
paired like helixes, will crash her bike,
her car, her lover's car, will find
herself alone in a dark room
with a man and know instinctively
the movements she should not make,
will leave a Hindi bangle or earring at every
restaurant, unknowingly, like a fingerprint.

I wrap her in a towel. She is small
enough to carry, her weight natural -
a package of bright water.
She wants to watch the movie
about the talking dog, the one
we rented from the library a hundred times.
We love it. She finds the tape
stuck under the couch, dropping the towel,
leaving two chubby damp marks from her shins.
Yesterday, she whammed her head
against the tabletop, where she'd misgauged
her height. At the hospital, my mother
and I compared scars while the doctor
checked for concussion. I think she'll
live, he said and winked.