Certainly it was the recessive traits that attached my earlobes
to my eyes, my good tan wasted on skin grafts.
I could have passed for white on Christmas Day with Bing Crosby,
wearing a pink sequined tutu--Mom says I'm not
supposed to--but not that it mattered,
mother nestling the baby brother I never wanted
in his creche and he's nearly as tall as me, with
a whirl of photographs and miraculous births prances by
night like my father in his dress
rolling dices for the long odds.
No comments:
Post a Comment