BIRTH MOTHER
by Srilata Krishnan
We are standing in front of the mirror,
my daughter and I,
brushing our hair and being vain
when I think of the doctor’s question:
“What was her birth cry like?”
I don’t know and never will.
She is fine, or will be, I know.
But looking in the mirror and into her almond eyes,
I wonder what she is like – her birth mother –
if she too, was once, afraid of words
and of the fluttering of pigeons,
if she has nicely formed arches on her feet
and whether or not her eyebrows make a bow
for good luck,
if she is small and slender-waisted,
if she is anything like my daughter,
or was.
Strange, but I don’t wonder at all about the father.
I tug at her pony.
“Amma, let’s go”, she urges into a mirror
that is slowly
swallowing
her birth mother.
Our eyes meet in that eye of a little god
and she smiles
the sort of smile that is like mine.
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