The Gold Sari Poem by Romella Kitchens

dear one, we can not change who
we are - having given birth to a
miracle

you should have understood that
birth raga her dark skin, tabla of

contractions

Be greatful the world had some space
for her, those of your familial forbid you
to provide

Believe she escaped the streets of Calcutta
those about you damned her to

Motherless nothingness

Understand adoption as a saving grace, her not
knowing you when you called many years later
a grace,

her clothes and lifestyle European, elite and joyous

teenager with much laughter and shoes

the gold sari you want to send to her not
understood as much more than a beautiful,
stranger's generosity not accepted, thought too
formal to wear in lieu of jeans, silky shirts, skirts
and teetering high heels.

You talk with her on the phone, yet she is light years
away from sorrow or apology for her Black lineage and
is happy, content with both sides of her infact.


You tell her you love her.
You say, 'Tell me you love me.'
Such an odd request from a stranger.
But, she says it because soon she must hang up
the phone, to study for hours then meet
a boyfriend who finds her beauty different
but does not know why.

The phone call becomes too serious, you weep.
Her ethereal joy is confused by this and she begins
to sob, the phone is grabbed from her hands by
her adoptive mercy, the mother she knows as mother.
Yet, calls out to you like she did in foster care, her pain
a torment, 'Mummy? Mummy? ! '

You were not supposed to call. You were not supposed
to know where she was.
Protest from the adopting mother, then sympathy for your
sorrow.
The girl can not talk anymore, she will go to a formal dance
in a full length blue evening gown 4 days hence, she has jasmine tea
awaiting her, she can not be made 'sad'.
The line goes dead, like a butterfly floated away.
You sit in the dark in a chair and weep.
Once stilled, you wrap the gold sari and place it in a trunk,
never to be taken out except for tender glances again.