Illegitimate

I don't blame you

I blame your mother

and the three months you

spent in limbo, as if

you were still in the womb

draining the embryonic fluid

while fretting, knowing

a change would come,

and it most assuredly

would not be good.

You live in that space

between arms,

those appendages

that refuse to embrace you,

and are rendered helpless

by your constant need

for touch, no matter

who offers it.

I have the larger hands,

but they are too small to cover

the gulf that separates you

from the very thing you

desire the most.

Those first three months

of your life,

in the Catholic orphanage,

watching the nurses pass

your crib, as you cried,

you learned that it was

best to say nothing

and to refuse security-

but five decades later,

you still stretch your arms

and beg for entry

into any room

that has a spare bed.