Adopted People

We have people --
no; we have no people -- no;
our people have no
people. Where did we come from:
closets. Where did we come
from: extended tours of
Europe. Conceived in church
camps and on the pebbles
rolling around alleys -- conceived
under tarps and in toilet stalls.
Where did we come from:
the trash bin. We're fiction.
Dropped off but
remembered. "They" are myth
to us too. My "real" mother
was rich. My "real" father
was ivy league. My "real"
grandparents were lawyers,
teachers, artists,
shit kickers. Where do we come from:
the air. You never
really want to notice
us. Aw,
the charity case. My "real"
mother had money. My
"real" father was a surgeon. Where
did we come from:
homes by the ocean,
down in Texas,
in the city, take
a bus to fifth
avenue. Our people
are imported
Chinese babies. Our people are
black folk adopted
by whites and so lose
the heritage. Our people
are white folk
adopted and so lose
a heritage: pollock, mick,
kike, wop, frog. Close
enough. My "real" mother
was manic depressive. My "real"
father was shot
in the head, shriveled up
from cancer, walked to
the gallows,
gave his second son
a marshmallow zoo
parade campout sleepover
for his 9th birthday.
But my mama and da? Besides
being there
when I was young,
when sick, when
illiterate -- they had
money -- who else
adopts on purpose.
And they were married. Where
did we come from:
we were given and
received, twice-chosen,
occasionally lied to,
rarely abused, usually
cherished. We have people
-- no; we have no
people -- no. Our people
have no people. All people
are our people.

published in Parting Gifts (Summer 2007)

Copyright Louise Robertson