Across the Salt

One shipping tag,

Brought back to the land, at the nape

Of my neck:

“Made in China”

That sparked people wonder. What worth

A foreign baby was

& my parents’

reason to adopt me, to swoon

me against

Family interjections.

That question: “you sure you want her?”

I recall. I recoil.

A simple question

Cut to an emotional turmoil as I grow

Into my straight hips

Deeper within

The margins where all color go. Yes!

I was made in China.

When one, just one

Was acceptable when my time came to be.

An unfortunate,

A simple regret

Being child #2 and given up by

            The law.

I can feel

The skimming of parenthood

Like a rock

Pouncing water,

Splashing at my fingertips, So nonlinearly,

You fear

The pattern it may take –

The spell

Of that red string, through

 Ink and papers.

Their first foot on the last bus ride

From New York

To above and across

The salts. The taste of their

            Lost son streaming

Down their cheeks. I can feel

The shield in their hearts, tender

            And vulnerable.

The edgings

Of their hearts sharpened by

            Every cutting.