I never called her back, the woman
with the two babies born just like mine.
Girls who couldn't crawl or talk,
could barely smile, who lay there,
bundled in flowered dresses, staring
at the ceiling. Both had lovely,
extravagant names, like opera singers
or stars of the ballet. She wanted,
I imagine, to sit with me —
the only woman she knew
like her, drink coffee,
stir it with silver spoons
as the steam rose to our tired eyes,
and our babies lay there, inert
and beautiful, sucking their small hands.
Was it so much to ask? She’d written
her number on a slip of paper,
put it in my palm. And week after week,
I promised myself to triumph
in this one, small thing,
pictured her lifting the girls
into their beds at night, the way I did
my son. Or dropping the bitter 
medicines into their open mouths
perhaps alone, afraid. I did what
villagers have done for centuries,
when they shun the widow,
the man with one eye.
Hadn’t lighting struck her twice?
I turned my back, kept her luck
from being added to mine.