Two Olives, Please

Mommy takes a long swig of cocktail,
always a chance for blurt,
a revelation somehow
of something we never wanted.
Did you know,
and so it begins.
There’s another sister somewhere,
on another shore,
another one of you.
Wide-eyed, my sister and I
pause
as she orders another martini.
Two olives, please.

This third remains unknown.
It was the war and Daddy was lonely,
she sighs and sips,
didn’t know the possibility of us,
couldn’t make it right on foreign shores.
He was blinded by Mommy’s shining allure,
undefined promises
beckoning him homeward.
So the baby disappeared
decades gone
into distant geography.
She shows up now,
amid swish and clink
at this luncheon of sly glances
and gaping mouths,
watching us silently
from another womb.