“svalow, svalow”
Put both my children
into a room full of strangers,
they become swallows.
Soon-to-be discovered adopted kids.
Some enigmatic knack,
reliable as March 19
at the old Spanish mission,
compels them home,
knowing each other
in unknowable ways.
They won’t twitter about
their common bond.
Like their parents might,
adopted kids won’t talk shop:
How old were you?
Domestic or international?
Open or closed?
Sometimes they find
the kind of kid
who is a salve of belonging,
a consolation against freakdom,
a companion on this long journey.
Other times,
it’s the sort who picks scabs,
rubs salt in, makes sure that
misery not only loves company,
but makes more for good measure.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston
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