AN OPEN LETTER TO OUR SPERM DONOR
Our daughter looks like me
people say, the architecture
of her eyebrows and pointed stare.
But in the photograph of you
at thirteen months: our baby’s
toothless grin after she’s grabbed
the cat by the tail. Every child
you said needs a mother who reads
and each night I let her suck
thick cardboard illustrations,
Big Red Barn and Goodnight Moon,
while I balance her on my lap.
If you lived with us, you
would know this. Perhaps
you would bring me a cup of tea
while I nurse her on the couch,
a book of poems open nearby.
Sometimes I wonder if you wonder
about us, when you’re at work
in the laboratory or when
you’re feeding your new son a bottle.
The stories of our children
are woven together. The tapestry
couldn’t be more beautiful, filled
with these widening holes.
—from Rattle #41, Fall 2013
Tribute to Single Parent Poets
Robin Silbergleid: “I live in East Lansing, Michigan, where I write, teach, and raise my two children. This poem comes from my manuscript The Baby Book, which deals with infertility treatment and becoming a single mother by choice.”
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