Sunday, November 11, 2007


You have your brother’s ears

Folded over in origami

Except where his is

A leaf beginning its unfurl

You little girl, have flower buds

Planted at the sides of your head.

Your eyes, nose, mouth so wide

Your cheeks, long fingers, toes,

Your rage, and an almost smile,

All exactly, like your father’s—

So he asserts. Frequently. Fondly.

And sadly (smile), quite wrongly.

You’ve been here three weeks

Only I’ve yet to make my claim

And play the same-same game.

Although in secret still, your rings

Of softness, your new heft, make

The sting of my milk's let-down thrill:

All of you. My flesh. My blood.


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