Thank you for the book you chose so carefully; the blanket you made by hand; the garment you knew would look beautiful against the dark hair of this child you never laid eyes on; the panda, dragon, bunny, bear; the frame for her picture; the music and the stories; the dark-haired doll with the squeezable body; the lights and sounds (and batteries!); the rubber ducky and hooded towel; the tiny cup; the tinier spoon; the food and fellowship; the safe haven (crib and playpen; car seat and gate) that she imagines mostly as confinement; the receiving blanket; the gift certificate; the savings bond and dollar bills; the clothing your own children wore; the toys your children played with; the yard sale treasures; the ornament and stocking; the rhino and the rag doll; the bib and swing and trike and book and toy that you, my youngest friend, outgrew; the welcome signs and sparkly fish; the intake of your breath when you caught your first glimpse of her.

Ode on a Chinese Adoption Here is the truth, Here in this child Squeezed from an unknown womb And from bewildered tears And from such endless, Inky whorls as these, Splicing ghost to ghost In staggered beauty.