Long, narrative poem, which speaks of my
search for meaning and coming to terms with my distant past and adoption issues.

Rare Bones I grew up a moth, a dying soul drawn to life's cruel flame. Anger and violence spread like a circle of negativity lit by my adoptive father and brother. Bracketed within the frame of Scandinavia and Titanic Britain, my consiousness fractured into a mosaic floor. I whirled in the plain of my father; his was a physique not admired my many, and a physics profession misunderstood by all. Life has always been a battle, a trial for a dark eyed girl. No, I would never have a child, I swore while recovering from each of my two abortions. My journey into the male world caused gashing wounds and endless chains of nighmares. I "died" in many ways; drowning in a frozen stream; stabbed by friends and lovers; and starving alone in a forest. Always a new search for love, for meaning, and for a sense of identity. Only the pen and the brush gave me strength. Yet the world remains a knife-edged whirling dervish. Mother, where are you. Father, were you ever there at all. A lawyer aided my search and the scolding of an important adoption agency. Mother wrote, and she spoke in an old crackly voice. In essence, I was just a blot on her resume, and of course,"...abortions were not available then." Father was merely a short summer fling in Berkeley, 1954. This strange, new person wrote and she sent nostalgic cards, but she wasn't there for me as a child or teenager. And now I cope with her stories about ailing relatives and my new identity-- a relation to an eighteenth century Austrian princess.