Adopted

The word was whispered among relatives
behind the gurgling coffee pot or over beaten

laundry, but tested out in the open 
by schoolmates. Planting doubt, they 

meant to hurt, insinuating I was merely 
changeling or impostor, taken in out of pity. 

For years, I wore my name like a coat 
with a secret pocket, my face a shield

over one I might not ever know. If I
was not made from the same pure

blood, why did the bed I lay in make
a perfect imprint of my shape? Why

was a particular future pressed into
my hands? Evenings, when owls began

their plaintive interrogation, I cracked
open roasted pumpkin seeds until my lips

grew pale from salt, as if one might yield 
an answer. I'm learning to put my faith in what

remains, the way a traveler moves through 
the landscape: leaning into time and gravity 

with no other retinue than this body
taking in the measure of each change.