Arrival in Wartsburg, Germany

I glance up at the open

waiting room door

to watch my father leave me

to attend to my misplaced mother

gone beyond the purple.

A steepled prison, the walls

stretching high above, bleeding

stripes—lavender and plum—

trapping me

as I await the unnamed sister.

My father, in a rare fever,

races back

to me—the other child—

and announces her arrival.

I would get to see

her soon, my father assures,

looking through me.

His word held, a foretelling squeak

drawing my eyes to the hospital’s carriage

with her—so unclean—

inside, awaiting to greet

a person she couldn’t care about,

flaky and cheesy and small.

I stare at the miracle of life

closely—unwilling to believe it—

watching the pink mass

stir under inspection.

Tiny—much smaller than the doll

I’d pretended was sister, crying against

life—like being born was so hard.

Before I could pass judgment,

the mass churned, its mouth

upturned, smiling

at me. Mass was no longer correct.

She had eyes—like I had—

A nose—like I had—

Fingers and toes—like I had.

My father’s hug confirms

That she’s mine to care for

…funny, I don’t know her name.