Doppleganger

I am startled

by how much

Claire Daneslooks

like you. She is

now thirty-two.

I study her

on the new TV

show wondering,

would you flip

your hair thatway?

Would your laugh

reveal yourteeth?

Would you have

her blend of

confidence and

vulnerability?

Most of all,

what music would

you be listeningto?

I imaginescrolling

throughthousands

of songs,organized

by style andmood,

on your ipod

(an applianceyou

did not live tosee).

You compiled

mixed tapes as a

soundtrack for

every activity.

I imaginemusical

discoveries Imight

find in yourremastered

digital mix. Mymusical

tastes arepedestrian.

I take fewrisks.

I want to live.

Our Natural World

Forty-four yearsafter you were in utero

we visit thewoman who at thirteen

nurtured yourbody with her blood.

She labored morethan twenty-four hours

for anotherwoman to give you a home,

a family, butnever the benefit of her breast.

For the firstten hours together, we sit

at the familytable and swap stories

of lives lived apart.The next day,

we drive to thebeach and scan the sand

for echinoidshells. We gather currency

we can neverspend, then drive

to the statepark in search of an Osprey nest.

We gaze at treetops until we see the craggy

gathering ofsharp sticks atop the tallest one.

Inside smallbirds. The mother scans

the seas forprey—fish, primarily,

but occasionallysquirrels, lizards, even

house cats. Sheswoops down and

captures themwith her long, spiny claws

then flies hometo feed her young.

At the base ofthe trunk, beneath the nest,

are dried andbroken bones, flesh

torn and suckedoff, one life taken

to nourishanother. There, in the Florida

sun, we marvelat the majesty of this natural

order as much aswe are repulsed

by its remnants.Then, in her own act

of delayedmaternal devotion,

your birthmothertells us, Osprey mate for life.

Scar

Above yourcheekbone

to the side ofyour left eye.

I only look atit

when you aresleeping.

I imagine you asan

infant. How yourmother

touched itgently while

you slept, lipspursed,

suckling, thenas you do now,

when you driftoff to sleep.

I imagine yourmother

wondering, whatpain

accompanied yourbirth?

When the forcepspinched

your skin, howlong did you bleed

deep red blood?Who wiped

the wound clean?How long

did you carrythe scab

before itdisappeared like the past

leaving thissmall, faint scar?

Sometimes, Isearch to find

its exact placeon your face.