My Brown Daughter

Dad Holds Flannery 2
My Brown Daughter

Even before the adoption
we shared the same
last name. Call it Fate,

the gods, or pure color
blind chance—
I like to think it means

something. In the first
photo of me
and her, I cradle this

infant like a holy visitant
from across
what lines and tracks

I already know, already
sense will
compel second looks

in Home Depot, questions
and answers,
approval, or not, love

of skin, hair, and eyes
my whiteness
makes foreign, till

I am drowned in the beauty
of brown, swept
up and away cross sweet

Jordans by a chariot
that swung
low for me and her,

coming with a band
of angels
to carry us home.


In Utero

Laura Post

In Utero

My wife has grown three sons
in her womb, nestled and nursed
these little raiders in her ark

of fluid and flesh. Another, a girl,
she anchored to her bosom
from nine days to now. Adopted

this one, blessed and baptized
her in oceans of smells
and coos, cradled her in arms

and eyes—such complex vessels
of love. For all my annual tilling,
she’s a better gardener than I,

consummate cultivator of each
thing great and small. Even
the benign fibroid mass

found growing in utero, her body
cannot but favor and feed—
such fertile ground, such springs,

such rivers and seas of life.