Poem for Wednesday, March 10, 2010

At the Supermarket

They told me you were coming in April

nonchalantly at the dinner table. I

dipped my bread in my soup, and

suddenly, you existed.

I never fathomed you because I don't

see your mother often, and when I

do see her, she wears baggy blouses

over her stomach. They're often red.

Your hair will probably be red at

first, but then it will ripen to blond.

That's what happened to all of us, and

you have our blood.

I won't know your name, and you'll

never know mine. I don't want us

to know each other, or at least not

when April comes.

It'll be a surprise or a coincidence

(you'll learn these words later).

We'll both see each other some

place and wonder.

Just imagine: you're standing in

line at the supermarket when

you're eighteen, buying cigarettes

and cinnamon lip balm.

I'm standing in the line to your

left, and we glance by chance at

each other, and we notice our eyes

were cut from the same sapphire.

This'll marinate in our brains for

an hour or so, then it'll dissolve

and reappear a couple more times

before I'm beneath dirt.

I wish I could write your history

for you, but I would leave too much

out--who your father is, where

you came to be, those types of facts.

And historians should be objective.

I admit I would conceal information

as well--you have two sisters, and

you weren't supposed to be born.

You weren't supposed to be, but

suddenly, you existed. I hope your

mother's blood succumbs to

your new mother's touch.

I hope you learn to read and love

it and are tolerant of everyone.

I hope you have nice manners and

enjoy sweet tea.

I hope that if you see me at that

supermarket (I won't judge you for

buying cigarettes), you look at me,

truly look at me.