and we return to the cranes.
Father, mother, daughter,
none of us are each other’s blood.
One of us is yours.
The world you left behind is full
of migrating birds. Snow geese,
trumpeter swans, sandhill cranes,
that travel the map from south to north.
The world is full of a girl with red-gold hair,
a girl with a gap in her teeth
and capes that fly out
behind her in the wind.
I traveled with her
from Metairie, Louisiana
to Lincoln, Nebraska.
I brought her from the hospital
where, separated by 35 years,
she and I were both born.
She’s guessed your passing
in the absence of information
that follows your name now
when I tell her how her blood
came to her through her birthmother
sparked by you from cell
to growing body.
Last year, your poisoned liver finally failed,
and so her mother and I took her to the river.
The cranes return, and we return to the cranes.