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      April 23, 2014An Open Letter to Our Sperm DonorRobin Silbergleid

      Our daughter looks like me
            people say, the architecture
      of her eyebrows and pointed stare.
            But in the photograph of you
      at thirteen months: our baby’s
            toothless grin after she’s grabbed
      the cat by the tail. Every child
            you said needs a mother who reads
      and each night I let her suck
            thick cardboard illustrations,
      Big Red Barn and Goodnight Moon,
            while I balance her on my lap.
      If you lived with us, you
            would know this. Perhaps
      you would bring me a cup of tea
            while I nurse her on the couch,
      a book of poems open nearby.
            Sometimes I wonder if you wonder
      about us, when you’re at work
            in the laboratory or when
      you’re feeding your new son a bottle.
            The stories of our children
      are woven together. The tapestry
            couldn’t be more beautiful, filled
      with these widening holes.

      from #41 - Fall 2013

      Robin Silbergleid

      “I live in East Lansing, Michigan, where I write, teach, and raise my two children. This poem comes from my manuscript The Baby Book, which deals with infertility treatment and becoming a single mother by choice.”