Are you blue eyed?
Are you red haired?
Are you whole and alive?
Are you the nurse’s or mine?
And what’s that chalk on arms?
No crying?
So complete and ready-made?
Yet through suffering arrived,
This early morn.
That chin—it’s hers
My wife’s and her whole family’s.
Their chin and face.
Am I in on this?
Sire an offspring to my wife?
It’s hers, not mine.
And it’s a girl.
I said it might be.
But all that activity,
Yet I said it might be,
I suppose not believing it.
Now, a girl, and hers, not mine,
Yet alive, and whole,
Maybe even beautiful
Certainly not that ugly thing
I was told to expect
But ours, yet ours—a girl,
And ours.
2/7/1964
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