08/06/99

Twin Daughters, Different Mothers

Years ago, when we lived in Massachusetts, my daughter played frequently with a child who had been born in Calcutta, left in an orphanage there, and adopted at seven months of age by an American couple. The Indian child's adopted mother, Barbara Mohr, wrote a poem about the girls that not only captures the girls' exuberance, but also the essence behind the play of children everywhere.

Not a Vain Thing

Two two-year-olds on a teeter-totter:
exuberance distilled to a fine squeal.
Twins: born in the same month
under the same star
hand in hand and suddenly arms flung around
for the unscheduled kiss
scheduled for like destinies
in U.S. suburbia
my sister.

One twin is Lorelei,
Brunhilde, Rapunzel
of the spun gold
in strapping strength
and three sizes bigger
with apple cheeks
and babyface gentle
vulnerable you want to
hug her and you
take her dimpled hand.

The other is Kali,
the Queen of Sheba,
the Nubian princess
dark dark with eyes shaped like
Nefertiti's and dancing,
and dancing too her dainty feet
and everything petite,
with apple cheeks
and pick me up.
You do.

Then it's back to the teeter-totter,
which needs all that balance,
needs two,
needs squeals.
And you recall the question:
"Why do the nations
so furiously rage together?"

Barbara Mohr

Please send questions or comments to bbruno@snet.net.