When Milan's mother died
His father wept like a child.

The neighbours whispered
                                          across the fence,
Poor thing. How beautiful she was.

How lucky Milan is, I thought,
His hair do not curl like mine.
Real joy is to have silk hair as his
That fall straight over forehead and eyes.

All evenings the aunties swept
In and out in hushed parties.
                                         He sat on the porch steps.

But the sisters played with me
Because I was quiet, because
                                             He has beautiful manners
                                             And does not fight.

And they brought me flowers
Plucked from the watered beds
In their upraised frocks,
                                     First one, then the other,
On the grass
                    Hops and songs
                                             And flowers
And riddles, and roles…

And though they had the brother
Whose hair would never curl as mine,
That day they played with me alone
Till I'd gone back home to mother