My teenage daughter has had her heart broken. There is a journey ahead now. We have all been here too more than once, most likely, in our lives, but that is no consolation as she holds her face against the soft inside of her forearm, crying that she does and does not know what to do. This afternoon is the first public reading from my poetry collection, The Shape of Caught Water . Though the book will not officially launch until Spring, I will stand up and bare my heart in a room of strangers and friends as winter light stripes the air in the museum where history hangs on the walls. As I was looking at the table of contents to select poems for the reading, I realized how many of the poems were written for or about my daughter. She is a "chip off of my heart", I typed to someone I'd not seen in thirty years earlier today, describing the awe-inspiring child I gave birth to. She is blistering hot and cold like lemonade and iced tea; she carries the rain in her precious h...