Composure

It was easier than I expected—

a slap landing on the ear, my hand finding

the small planet of her skull,

her hair slipping like a dark flag.

We both froze: a bell, a mistake that rings.

She stands in tears, a woman who’s misplaced an address,

flips me off, and I hear books hit

the hollow door.

Outside, the fall air reminds me I’m a father

in search of grace, and one of us

has to be adulting today.

Then, with a slow mechanical sweep,

she drags her arm across the dresser,

sending cups, trophies, and postcards to the floor.

Her eyes are an animal’s: alert, then quiet.

We learn a sentence, because we must.

“I’m taking a minute,” I say.

She says it back while we plant daffodil bulbs.

Later, at seven, she shocks the house—

trash bag flapping fresh,

the patience of a thirteen-year-old translating grief.

It’s black outside already.

The Halloween inflatables next door

are bigger than their Christmas ones.

This neighborhood wakes for treats,

rests for gifts.

And I must admit

I have taught my daughter

how to flinch.

Ryan Mulligan is a writer and consultant based in Cincinnati, Ohio. His poetry is shaped by life as a father, caregiver, and husband in a family navigating profound disability, love, and the daily work of staying. A former art professor, Ryan runs a consulting practice that supports nonprofits, public institutions, and people doing work that matters. His book of poetry, Lovework, will be published by Pine Row Press later this year.