The Adoption

In the mint green hospital room, I notice every gesture of your birth family. The lilting voices, how often they pass you around,

the unanswered questions when our eyes meet. The self-assured

grandfather, with your same smile, has made an exception

to come together again, for his daughter’s sake. The grandmother

has talked herself into this moment, on the edge

of relenting, always one hand on her daughter.

The aunt, fixing her hair, doesn’t notice how the angels

have placed a finger on your lips, indenting them

in sleepy silence. And the mother, so young,

has gathered teenage friends, tattooed and smelly,

their nervous giggles prop up her courage. We sit

at the foot of her bed, smile at our good fortune.

Some grand entitlement reserved for royalty and the well

to do. In near disbelief we lay claim to this moment,

taking what has been promised us. I insist on giving you

your first bottle and in that small initiation, your new

breath on my hand, I am without a doubt that we and you

were meant to be. Through the odds of biology and chance

connections, through the web of satellites you had to maneuver

to land on earth, through convincing my wife to consider

adoption, you have fallen into my arms, this perfect

baby boy. We carry you away in borrowed blue flannel,

away from this brief connection of origin, knowing

that as enormous as our gratitude will always be, so too

will be your grief. And we quietly accept all of this

driving home on that icy, April afternoon.