I pine for a photograph.
In it, my secret mother
is perhaps seventeen,
and I barely one
in her arms. She wears
a veil that covers her head
and falls around her shoulders,
lace cutouts like the puzzle
pieces from this story.
I’m not even sure
I know what it is I want
to know: whether my father,
barely two years married
to my official mother,
took something he
shouldn’t have,
or if it was freely
given. I know
there is
such a picture.
I fingered it often
when I was young,
before I even knew
what was missing.