I have a daughter who is not my daughter
a child not my own, but borrowed
from one who could not bear the burden herself.
I have a daughter who is not my daughter
who stands in the middle of the room and spins
her hair whirling in a circle around her
a creature so opaque, I cannot even guess her thoughts.
I have a daughter who is not my daughter
who pays her visits to her mother
in coin brought dutifully forth from some deep pocket I only glimpse
who has known since she was three the subtle pain
of having to carry her heart from home to home.
I have a daughter who is not my daughter
who astounds me with her clarity
and drives me crazy with dirty dishes
who lugs the cross of adolescence
like her heavy bookbag, leaning off one shoulder
whose face is a shield I cannot penetrate.
I have a daughter who is not my daughter
yet is a child of my husband, a sister to my child
who sits long nights talking to her father of mathematics or best friends
who carries her sister on her back, laughing,
dipping down and then up, brown head by blonde head
whose smile in yellowing photographs looks so like my child
that I gasp.
I have a daughter who is not my daughter
round and full, thick as cream
where I am sour milk
still as a stone in the riverbed
where I am the eddy, spinning
a prisoner longing to touch the sky
that blinds her as it shines through the bars
yearning towards the freedom that has left me impaled.
I have a daughter whom I cannot call daughter
for worry of offending her
I cannot profess pride in
for she was not born of me
I cannot hug
for she is not that way
I cannot love
for I am afraid.
3/31/96