Friday, August 2, 2013

Friday Original Poem


When I say the word “orphan”
The word sits on my tongue like mold
One mother a mystery, lost to cancer, to mistakes, to men who used her
Leavings to a landfill turned to decay

Granny’s acrid breathing labors two years later
And a young woman chooses three faces from a courthouse photo.

In America, a mad host insists the two oldest are hers
They are plucked bare, like pimpled and shivering chickens
Spent and anxious arrive at my door
Mingle with my three, making six

The world has been too kind to someone
Fearful of what havoc true munificence might render


Knotted with reedy strands, woven through membrane, fillet and tissue
They are mine and they are a dead woman’s
A pretty thirty-one-year-old with black hair,
A granny who lived just shy of one hundred
And a cruel federal judge

A cheese-like problem (though the children hate cheese)
Filled with holes I slip between
A puzzle only prophesy can solve


  1. Life isn't fair, but very special people turn holey cheese into memories that fill empty spaces. You are a special lady.

  2. What an amazing experience for your family and the children from Latvia! I'm not sure how you found the strength to send them home.Thank you for being you, J! I so admire you!

    1. It ain't over yet Gina. I sit here with the two oldest as the little one sleeps upstairs and though I fly to Colorado tomorrow, I return to them on Thursday and will put them on a plane to Latvia Saturday.