The mother's dead. <br />Thirty years later <br />you meet the daughter <br />and realize the daughter <br />is the mother again, <br />poking her finger <br />in your chest half an hour <br />after her plane lands. <br />The same laugh knocks <br />folks in the elevator <br />back a bit. <br /> <br />Every time the daughter <br />grabs your arm <br />to emphasize a point <br />the way the mother did, <br />you want a ticket <br />to the Maldives <br />or maybe Bulgaria. <br />Sofia in the summer <br />might be nice. <br /> <br />This time, however, <br />you stay put. <br />She found you <br />on the Internet. <br />You must admit <br />the freckles <br />across her nose <br />scream she's right: <br />You are her father. <br />Surprise, Surprise. <br />Her mother never said<br /><br />Donal Mahoney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/surprise-surprise-7/
