Birth Mother

So I said it like this:

You let me down twice,

giving me away, then dying

before I could find you,

and now that door will never close,

letting in a periodic chill that

makes me shiver--

little whispers, voices all around

with their cold tongues, sibilant

sounds that every now and then

resolve into this:

You're not good enough.

It's your fault.

Better try really hard or

it will all happen again.

Anything and anyone you

hold dear--

Well,

it's all conditional.

You were chosen, sure,

that's special, but

nothing's guaranteed.

The letter from the

kind woman at the agency

arrived that November day,

leafless branches creaking in

the sunlight as my trembling hands

opened the envelope, revealing

names, places, and this:

You did all you could,

got the information you were

legally allowed,

withheld your signature until

(in your heart, I imagine) you knew.

I think of our parting, that scene

you remembered, lost to this infant's

goldfish mind, and I know now

(in my head, at least) that the

sum of my years of dull ache

you felt sharply, maybe all at once

when your trembling hand shaped

that signature, or when you touched me

for the last time.