THE DAUGHTER I DON'T HAVE
is my other.
I see her face
in the shape of
mine in each
metro car flash-
ing by, her
brown eyes drink
me in. I could
be walking into
my reflection in
the mirror. I see
her cock her head
as I do, squint
to read in dim
light where she
hides in the jacket
of a book with my
name on it, in
the spoon my
mother brought me
from Chicago
World's Fair. She's
with me in the
ferns, a siamese
twin I can't quite
touch. She is the
figure in a paper
weight the snow
won't settle in