BIRTHSTONE

Each morning I eat an orange

from the bagful given us

by the head of the orphanage,

and still the bag is full.

Afternoons on the tour bus

you sit in my lap and sleep

or cling to my garnet necklace

biting it with all four teeth.

Out the bus’s window

the bicyclists of Guangzhou

balance boxed refrigerators

and crates of live hens

above their back spokes.

Look ma, no hands

another new parent jokes

as he refocuses his lens

to catch a trio of girls

turning perfect cartwheels

before they begin to squeal

and mug for the camera.

A cluster of girls that age

and one albino boy

posed for their pictures

that day at the orphanage.

“Welcome American families”

the chalkboard read.

These are our best babies

your father overheard

someone say in Mandarin

as you were carried in

and I shot out of my seat

to take you from your “auntie”

and hold you close.

You were wearing layers

on layers of clothes

topped by bulging overalls

and pink appliquéd

white cotton shoes

too small for your toes

but soft and delicate.

Yours. And you mine.

Under close-cropped hair

your big eyes took me in

with a glint of recognition.

Then, after an exchange

of currency and gifts,

everyone stood to watch

the new mothers change

their babies’ diapers,

the adolescent girls

and one albino boy

just outside the door

looking sweet enough

to forgive the inexplicable,

that none of us had come

to take them home.

Tug, tug all you like,

my darling—tug till you’re back

asleep, tug in your dreams,

start tugging again

the minute you wake—

no matter how hard

you tug, your birthstone

necklace will not break.