You should love each one differently.
Some will be your favorite children.
You should tuck them into bed, whispering
incantations over their tattooed faces.
Some will be your favorite children,
and others will not receive blessings,
incantations over their tattooed faces—
not from you. Not at first.
Others will not receive blessings,
it’s so hard to believe they are your own.
Not from you. Not at first
glance, not after years. Even in their sleep.
It’s so hard to believe they are your own.
They’ll feather, fly, and never a backward
glance, not after years, even in their sleep,
the strangers. Estranged. Independent.
They’ll feather, fly, and never a backward
nod to you, to their siblings,
the strangers. Estranged, independent,
and fled. You’ll see it as a
nod to you, to their siblings,
as if separation signifies worth. Both fledged
and fled. You’ll see it as a
mark of distinction,
as if separation signifies worth. Both fledged
and their nesting twins. The ones you keep. Your own
mark of distinction
imprinted on each cheek.
The nesting twins, the ones you keep, your own
graven image and finger ridges
imprinted on each cheek.
You’ll breathe in tandem as they sleep. Sing,
graven image and finger ridges.
Your midnight terrors, your beasts, your loves—
you’ll breathe in tandem as they sleep. Sing
one word in every language that you know.
Your midnight terrors, your beasts, your loves.
You should tuck them into bed, whispering
one word in every language that you know.
You should love each one. Differently.