From the Cradle Poem by Rochelle Hope Mehr

From the Cradle

At some point every child wonders if he or she is adopted.
Those two strange creatures hovering so high above you,
Their conniving ways disgorging the sputum of your innocent
What are they to each other?
What are they to you?

He says you’ve both got the same crooked finger on the right hand.
You must be his kid.
He’s always calling you by her name when he gets angry at you.
What of it?

She tries to protect you from him.
Shelter you under her wing.
From there you can hear her heart aflutter.
But she can’t hear you.
She knows what is best for you.
Exactly what you want and need.
Will even dip her head down to ask you
But then do exactly the opposite of what you say.
You’re too much a part of her —
Squiggling under her wing.

They both see you as her underling
And fight their battles.
Sometimes you are roused from your slumber
By their grousing and peep.
They drag you out to mediate.
It isn’t easy playing King Solomon.
Not for a little pipsqueak.

Rochelle Hope Mehr