Abuela Aida was obsessed with whether
her daughters would sprout las orejas de torreja
de Abuelo Cesar y José Basilio, those ears
that induced Sisa to tie a blue ribbon around
Tio Raul’s infant head (even if people might think
he was a girl) to prevent them from smothering
him in his sleep. She gave thanks to God when
Mami and Mina each emerged from the womb
with ears well-proportioned for wearing a proper
moño, and again years later, when we her nietos
also managed to escape the elephantine curse.
So when our first daughter is born the women
of the family swoop down ceremoniously to dissect
her baby body. Mami proclaims que la niña tiene
las sortijitas pegadas a la cabeza like my father,
though the strawberry blond hue of her ringlets
belong to Abuela Rosina. Most importantly, her ears
are perfect, tiny caracoles de nacar. Lying in her moisés,
la niña gazes at her father, not yet able to recognize
the amused smile taking shape as he strokes the reddish
stubble of his beard, while I fix my eyes on hers, wanting
to believe it’s true, that a little piece of ourselves
can live in the precise curve of a fingernail bed,
or in the pupil of the bluest eye
