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.