Love Baby by Anna Mae Perillo

Love Baby

I was born into sunshine
and darkness.
I was Daddy’s love baby;
Mommy and sister’s hate baby.
I know, black and white, even though I live in the gray.
It’s easier to say I had good mommy and bad mommy.

I was supposed to be twins,
before sonograms.
My solo appearance may have been
the first disappointment. I never heard it was
a relief. The second, when the doctor asked,
Who has red hair and a hook nose?
That doctor, my first bully.

My mother said my birth was a snap,
over before she knew it.
She gave me some credit for that
but always blamed me for not looking
upon her in a pleasant you-look-like a great-mother way
in that first hour. She took it personally
forever. She said, You refused to eat. Your mouth was set in a foongie face,
describing my tight-pursed lips
set sternly against the bottle.
(She tried breastfeeding my sister; she wouldn’t try that again.)

Maybe I am twins—
one of us is strong and brave;
one of us is weak and afraid.
Together, we make hurricanes, so scared of themselves
they downgrade to tropical storms,
but most of the time: a steady summer rain

empathizing with the tempered wood of the stilts holding up
beach houses and with children who
just want to ride bikes and squeal
or read books on porches.
Yeah, mostly a       love baby.

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Image credit: Twins (wallpapersafari.com)

Anna Mae Perillo
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