Open Adoption

I used to check the mailbox every day

looking for something with my name

written in loose cursive,

with a Georgia postage stamp

telling me you love me

I dream of that mailbox

barren and sad, creaky door

flaccid flag, with nothing inside

I dream of ups drivers and big brown parcels,

just for me

I read your letters

to my mother

the woman who raised me

I hear the pain in your hand

when you ask why she doesn’t write

I’m sorry she didn’t write

I’m sorry for what was stolen from us

I’m afraid you’ve died

I look up your name in the obituaries online

like a ritual

So many have died

None are your age

It’s mothers day and my dreams say

I have repressed rage

I always thought it was a super power

Being able to stash it away, but

now there is only pain

and feeling afraid

My dreams tell me

I can’t live this way

Conversations with My Mother, on the topic of Adoption

The space between our skin

made it impossible for us

to lean into each other,

to truly connect

This is an ugly 

truth


Was it really impossible,

or did we conspire

to make it so?

Knowing,


Somewhere deep inside ourselves,

In a space too dark and sad to

bring to light, perhaps

we were never truly

meant to come

Together