by Marilyn Nelson

For L. F.

Daughter, this is my daughter, my dad said.
He put the new baby into my arms.
She was beautiful, as small as a doll,
a warm package with long black eyelashes
and tiny fists with teensy fingernails.
She’d suddenly appeared from wherever
babies come from, maybe from a stork’s egg?
And here she was, my own little sister,
for me to play with and tell stories to:
the baby sister I’d asked Jesus for.
I could hardly take my eyes off of her face.
My dad gave me a push. Go on, he said;
take her to your mother. My mother’s eyes
narrowed with rage I didn’t understand.

Poem copyright 2018 by Marilyn Nelson. All rights reserved.

See more poems from Marilyn debuted on The Fight & The Fiddle:
“Almost Sisters” and “Kismet.”

 

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Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt